Aria's Advisor
by Xeno Major
Summary: One minute, I'm at home; the next, I'm in a wretched hive of alien criminals. This universe is a death-trap; the apocalypse is coming and the Reapers are going to kill us all. I'm no soldier, I'm a cowardly thinker. To survive, I'll have to think outside the box. But first, I have to survive Omega. To do that, I'll have to cast my lot in with the ruler of this rock, Aria T'Loak.
1. Chapter 1

**I jumped on the bandwagon, falling to the temptation. Well… it was tempting. I just couldn't avoid a self-insert forever.**

**This is an SI of unknown quality. My goal is to survive the Reaper Apocalypse (obviously) through manipulation of knowledge, technology, and people, but without changing the 'feel' of a Mass Effect story. This is _not_ a Mad Genius Death-Lasers story, nor is it akin to a superhero movie.**

**If anything, the canon 'feel' of Mass Effect will be altered only slightly by reality, not by author appeal. There will be no bikini armor, no 'idealized' women, no obscenely muscled men (except Vega, if he shows up), no ignorance of the consequences, no blatant favoritism in the writing, and no g_odd_amn Mary Sues.**

**In the Real World, there would be an Endor Holocaust, simply because of basic physics. In the same way, this story _will _have the consequences of my actions, whether good or bad. If I fuck something up, it _will_ have horrible consequences.**

* * *

><p><em>Vague feelings of falling hit me, like I'd gone eight rounds with David again, like …<em>

_Like I was sleeping, falling endlessly, only I fell through places, events, people…_

_As I fall, I make out the barest of glimpses of the wake of the boat. I'm too small to see over the railing, and I can just barely see the disturbed water so far below, like the boat had been kicking its legs harder than usual. _

_Grandma laughs, and tells me that the boat is a ship, and that it doesn't have legs. I try to hear what I already know that she will say next, that Papa Frank is here, but I'm falling again, and I sink beneath the waves. _

_This was so long ago; I had forgotten that this had even happened. _

_Suddenly, I realize that I almost saw Papa Frank, for the first time, but had again missed the opportunity, as though even my subconscious mind denied me that privilege._

_Next up is the my first day of work at the construction company, as I'm handed a wire brush and told to start scraping. They smile kindly at me, proud to see the next generation starting his work. Then I am no longer scraping diligently, but _watching _myself scrape the boom section, as the concrete and gravel gives way to dirt, and I'm gone from the Shop._

_Whoever's directing this slideshow of memories decides to skip forward a bit, as I start to understand what's happening. I start pondering how I can be conscious while in a dream, but before I can explore this issue further, I feel a prodding, like some is pok-_

* * *

><p><strong>August 25th<strong>

Ugh…

I can feel wetness on my chest, and hard ground underneath me. Oddly enough, it doesn't feel like concrete, but there is definitely a puddle of _something_ on my chest.

My body is _killing_ me. I haven't felt this sore in a long time.

I groan and roll over, on to my back, and slowly checking everything.

My biceps were tender, but experience told me they'd be fine in half an hour. I told experience to shut the hell up. Legs were decent, and would need a little stretching. Last but not least, my head felt like an axe murderer had attacked me, but again, I should be fine in a couple minutes.

Opening my gummy eyes and blinking, I am greeted by a shady set of old I-beams, connecting to support a rocky looking cave ceiling. To the side of me, though, are metal walls, and I can hear the hubbub of a bustling city behind my pounding ears.

I sit up, cracking my neck and swinging my arms to loosen up. Oddly, I'm wearing my gi pants, not jeans, and my backpack is lying just a couple feet away. As I sluggishly climb to my feet, I lean over and snatch the strap of my backpack, digging into the pack to see what's in there. First thing I touch is a sweaty rag, which means my towel. A hard thing, I run my hand along it and find a slim wooden cylinder, my tanto. Light padding and some Velcro: my sparring gloves. Tie that in with my gi, and I must have been coming home from class.

Huh. Must've fainted. I briefly wonder what we did for class tonight, but discard that thought. First priority is getting home, then figure out what happened.

But then why am I in a cave? Why can I still hear-

_click_

A harsh garble of sound snaps in my ears, but it's meaningless.

Something small, blunt, and hard pokes me in the back. I drop my pack instantly, realizing that the noise before was trying to talk to me.

...but why was his (or, God forbid, _her_) speech so mangled? It didn't sound like any language I'd heard before, and believe me, I've heard a few.

The voice continues, ever harsher now, but I think I can distinguish it as a male with a slight oddity in his voice, almost like he'd been watching too much Stargate.

"Listen, buddy, we don't have to do this." I try to reason, my voice low and calm, despite the fact I have absolutely _no _idea what the man is saying. Given that he's poking a gun into my back, I am _not_ going to try to be too argumentative.

Snapping with barely contained ferocity, the voice returns again, and I think that the mugger is running out of patience. It (He?) is angry.

"I don't have anything of value," I try again, adding a slight pleading sound to my voice that isn't entirely faked.

Snarling, the voice roars in an enraged fashion, and the barrel of the gun jabs a little further into my back. It's about dead center. The voice keeps yelling, but the tone is slightly hesitant, as if it's worried.

Worried perhaps, but he's getting annoyed, I realized. Annoyed person plus a gun equals dead Nick.

Keeping my hands up but my elbows low, I turn my head a bit and spot the man's right arm protruding out of the corner of my eye. Okay, buddy, if you're this serious, then I think we're gonna have a problem.

The voice sounds again, and I feel a slight change in the pressure of the gun barrel on my back. Flicking my eyes down, I see my black and gold sling-backpack get tossed back, behind the mugger.

_This is my chance_, I realize. This is the only chance I'm going to get before it decides to use that weapon.

Before he can finish, I spin, knocking his gun arm across his body with my right forearm. He's shocked, but he holds onto the pistol. I swiftly follow up with a left palm heel to his upper arm, jarring it. A phantom voice echoes in my head, reciting locations, as my body swings into autopilot.

I punch out, putting hips and shoulders into the strike to his chest.

The man backs up, choking, looks like he's gonna bring the pistol back at me.

As my right hand comes back, I snatch the man's gun arm and _pull_, bringing him back forward.

A half-open snarl turns into a howl of pain as I break the man's arm with another palm strike. The pistol clatters to the ground as his arm disfigures.

But before I can move again though, he counters. A left punch with a sting connects to my temple. He got some force into the blow, but I can tell he's never trained for this. A brawler, probably used to back-alley negotiations, and now he's well and truly pissed, so he's hitting with every bit he's got.

He's surprised when I don't fall back, and I'll bet even more surprised when my left hand comes back, aiming for the eyes. I hit the neck instead of the chest with my first strike, but now I'm spot on. Or so I think.

But instead of a knuckle strike to his eyes, I hit something fleshy that I don't recognize.

As we traded blows, I didn't get a good look at the man's face, but now I can tell that his eyes are far apart, like _really_ far apart. His nose looks squished, though, so I congratulate myself in a flash before moving in again. This guy's shorter than me, but I don't want to risk the chance he's got a second gun or a knife.

A knee to the groin puts him off his game, though, and an elbow strike to the jaw knocks him back.

He's dazed, so I look frantically for the gun, spotting it and punting it back behind me, out of reach. Just as I look up, the mugger has recovered and is throwing another left hook. Having a broken arm doesn't give you a lot of options, I guess.

But he's slow, and in the instant between my block and his fist colliding, I pick up a few details. He's ailing, leaning back now, and he's left his front leg locked and open.

I knock his arm to the side and kick out, halfway between a kick and a stomp. Shihan would shake his head at my technique, but it's effective: his leg buckles back like kindling, and he crumples.

I step back for a second; waiting for him to get back up before the result of my instinctive stomp becomes apparent. As it does, my mind whirls back to the pistol on the ground.

On impulse, I turn around and dive for the gun, scrabbling to grab it as my hands start shaking. God, I'm shaking as I finally seize the pistol. The fight is almost over and now it hits me that I just beat the stuffing out of somebody.

I turn back, but the mugger's already crawled away in the time I was fumbling over the pistol.

I look for him wildly, pointing the pistol everywhere, but he's gone.

Backing up, I hit the side of the alley and sink down to the ground, hands shaking.

It seems like something trivial to be worried about, but I just want my hands to stop shaking.

Struggling to focus as adrenaline rushes throughout my system, I somehow manage to concentrate enough to think for a minute about that mugger.

His eyes were spread ridiculously far apart, his nose was squashed, and he just plain didn't _look_ right.

As I slowly rewind the furiously quick brawl, I gradually piece together details. I didn't have the spare brainpower to concentrate on _looking _at the guy, but I was looking at his chest, trying to read his body movements. In my haste, I focused lower on his chest than I should've, and I didn't quite read him as well as I would have like.

As the adrenaline began wearing off, I begin to shiver, despite the fact that my wool-lined winter jacket was very warm. I tried to force myself to calm down, but my body refuses, and I quickly leap to my feet, gathering up my spilled pack and pulling it on. Pulling my baseball cap on, I head out of the alley, only to stop, astonished, at the end.

Oh.

Well, chimes in a corner of my mind, that explains why that mugger's eyes were too far apart.

Shut up, the rest of my brain shouts, as I numbly stare at everything whirling around in a chaotic rush of purpose and poverty. Salarian merchants are hawking goods at passing turians, while batarians in Blue Suns armor muscle through the crowds of poor. I even spy an elcor with a cigar hanging out of his tiny mouth.

_Oh_.

I'm on Omega, I think, the steady mental voice completely at odds with my current disposition.

Oh_ shit._

* * *

><p>As I regain my awareness, I move away, finding a shadowed cranny with an overlook of the main walkway past Afterlife. Plopping myself down, I decide to stay here for a while.<p>

Afterlife.

As in, Aria T'Loak.

As in, _Mass Effect._

Hoo boy.

But I can't linger on that _incredibly amazing oh my-_

Okay… focus… try to focus.

I have no food, no water, and no shelter.

Okay, let's stay away from the negative, I have a feeling there will be too many of those.

I have clothing: a school crew top, my black gi pants, my worn outdoor jacket, and a formerly white baseball cap. I have a sweat-covered towel, my sparring gloves, and … my ceremonial tanto.

Now I want to slap myself silly. The tanto would have made fighting that mugger a _lot _easier. I now also have a pistol, though I don't know how to reload it or any of its more intricate functions.

Other than that, I have my wallet, about fifty bucks US and Canadian. My pocketknife, a nice Benchmade, is clipped to my pants, and I'm wearing my runners. I'm not yet hungry, I'm slightly thirsty, and I'm way too paranoid to go to sleep anytime soon.

Looking down, I can see the elcor bouncer maintaining discipline in the line, though I don't see any stupid humans bothering the bouncer. Well, I could be a couple days or ...

Hmm… I don't know the date.

Hell, I barely know the date when the events of either game took place. I think it's the twenty-one hundreds, but that's literally all I know. Okay, given that I don't see Reapers or Collectors slaughtering everyone in sight, so I should be good in that sense.

If I'm lucky, I've arrived before Mass Effect 1, though since I never played the first game I probably will be having a lot of stumbling around and messing up.

Still, being on Omega means I might interact with characters from the second game. Hopefully, I might be able to catch a ride to the Citadel, or maybe hook up with Garrus or Mordin if I'm closer to that time frame.

But… should I? Should I intervene with the events of the game? What if I mess things up? The suicide mission alone can claim the lives of the entire team, Bioware made that clear enough.

On the other hand, I could _save_ a lot of lives if I helped Shepard. The question is not should I or should I not, the question is how do I go about trying to save the galaxy from an ancient race of machine exterminators.

At least, I console myself, they're not shaped like peppershakers. Then we would all be doomed.

No, hooking up with Shepard is definitely the best option. So let's list off all the companions that I could hook up with.

First game companions… all I know are Wrex, Garrus, Tali, and Liara. Wrex could be anywhere working, Garrus, would be either at C-Sec or Omega, Tali would be somewhere in the galaxy with the flotilla, and Liara is either on the archeology planet, or on Illium.

Okay, so the only viable option would be Garrus, or Wrex. But I doubt Wrex would take along some human on his contracts, and even if he did, I'm not sure I'd be able to pull my weight. That goes for Garrus as well. Maybe if I joined C-Sec, I'd be able to join up with Shepard _and_ have the time to improve myself to that point, but other than that… it'd be impossible.

What about the dossiers from the second game?No, every person in the second game that you could recruit was the expert in something. Tali was – is – a tech expert, Garrus is a sniper and tactician, Thane is the best assassin in the galaxy, Miranda and Jacob have ins with Cerberus, Samara and Jack are biotics, Grunt, Legion, and Zaeed are some of the best fighters, and Kasumi is the best thief.

Me? I'm just a kid, barely into college, with limited shooting knowledge and no real interest in physics, or chemistry, or computers. I've got no – well, no practical – military experience.

Sure, I'm athletic, but I don't have the genetic improvements or cybernetic implants of the Alliance Marines. They'd destroy me in a straight fight, and there's plenty of out of work marines in the mercenary groups.

Except… they don't know that. If I could bluff them or trick them, then it doesn't matter how strong or fast I am. Only how smart I am, and how I play the game.

So really, all I have to do is manipulate my opponents into falling for my tricks.

Of which I have none.

Yet.

_How am I going to survive here?_

"That's the human, get him!"

Oh, _shi-_

I bolt from my outlook spot, hopping over veranda railings while three batarians try to chase me from the main walkway. I'm not in the best running gear, but I have a feeling I'm more athletic than any of these guys.

_BLAM!_

But if they have guns, then I've gotta get the hell out of here right now!

_BLAM! BLAM!_

I'm not a practitioner of parkour, but I've got plenty of friends who are, used to big cities as they were, and it didn't look too hard to do. As well, I was in gi pants, which are made to avoid restricting movement as much as possible, for those high-flying karate kickers. Alright, coming up the first ledge…

I jump over the gap, reaching out with my hands. Slapping down on the railing, I try my hardest to swing my legs out, around my twisting torso and over the railing. Whoops, legs didn't quite go all the way… pain explodes up and down my left leg, from where it smacked into the railing. I stumble, almost falling, but recovering just in time to take a step up a small coffee table and make the next leap.

The landing on this is a bit off, though, and I trip and fall face first, while the batarians yell and fire at me. Luckily for me, I'm well used to tumbling, and with a quick front shoulder roll, I'm back on my feet and moving again.

_BLA-BLAM!_

_BOOM!_

_They have a shotgun_, that treasonous corner of my mind says, almost as if watching from a distance. Must go faster, I think, ignoring that thought. Must go faster, must go faster_, must go faster!_

Running carefully, as narrow as possible, I started cursing out everyone in the apartment block I was passing. Really, who leaves a decorative urn on the ledge where it can be knocked over?

I couldn't keep this up for long, though, because I was quickly running out of room on the ledge. I look desperately, but there was no more room on the ledge, it just droppes off. Glancing back at the batarians, I saw one of them a little close, but the other two were lagging behind. Okay, then, looks like I have just enough space.

As I reached the end of my space, I unslung my backpack and tossed it over the edge onto the walkway. Unlike vaulting the railings, falling from height was something I was very used to. I slowed as much as I dared, before crouching and dropping down in a more or less smooth motion.

I was still moving a bit forward, but I had plenty of room. Extending my legs but keeping them from being locked, I landed on the balls of my feet and rolled, my chin tucking into my left shoulder, hands coming up to brace, and my right shoulder smoothing meeting the metal flooring. I rolled back up, grabbed my backpack with my left hand and took off again, down the side walkway that had cut of my escape.

The first batarians turned the corner just as I was turning another farther down the way, and let lose a one-handed shot. As I wheeled around the corner, the tiny fragment of metal bounced off the wall and blasted _right in front of me_.

Swearing quickly, I kept going, knocking aside grumpy bystanders, who got a whole lot grumpier when the batarians thugs came behind me, firing over the heads of the crowd. A couple people screamed, but the rest just ducked and moved to the side, apparently fully used to gun battles in the streets.

The crowds running back and forth didn't help my escape any, as I started bouncing between bodies, jostled to and fro as the batarians keep firing at me, the rounds flying overhead. In the jumble of the mob, I lost my bearings and got spun around.

I ended up facing a small portal to some courtyard, and with the batarians coming quickly I sprinted into the opening I was presented.

The courtyard was full of low, functional benches and planters, in the same metal that seemed so prevalent on this station. More windows from apartments looked out on all sides down on the secluded courtyard, though the occupants didn't seem in a rush to assist me. However nice it looked, there was still the problem that stared me straight in the face as I entered.

There were no other ways out of the courtyard. I was trapped like a rat, and the batarians were now following me in.

Another round flew over my shoulder, and I dove over one of the low planters, landing awkwardly on my backpack. Groaning in pain, I push my pack away, but not before reaching in and grabbing my tanto, which goes by my side. I draw the pistol I took off the first mugger and hold it in a careful two-handed grip. The weight of the pistol isn't balanced in the slightest, but as I put my finger on the trigger, the mass effect field kicks in, and the pistol becomes much lighter. I cautiously get into a firing crouch, before peaking just over the planter.

One of the thugs is running straight at me, pistol in hand, while the other two seem to have dropped into cover.

I drop the crouch to a kneeling position and pop my torso out of cover long enough to squeeze off a shot. Unexpectedly, despite the different ergonomics of the boxy pistol, it's very similar to the pistols I've shot before. As I fire, I think instinctively that I missed, but a bloom of blood spurts from the batarian's chest, and I'm so astonished that I reflexively fire again, and a second hole appears in the batarian. The first shot hit him in the upper chest, and the second penetrates where the batarians chest meets his neck.

The batarian stumbles, choking and trying to grab his neck, as if to staunch the flow of blood. His form crumples, sinking to his knees before going motionless on the floor. Cries of rage come from his two friends, as they spot their dead comrade. An idea pops up in my head, if I can get the idiots to leave cover, I can kill them quickly.

"Hey, bastards, how's it feel to get yer asses kicked?" I yell past the planter's protective bulk, peaking slightly over the lip of cover to gauge their reactions. They still look angry, but there's no sign that it's because of my remarks. Oh, right. I don't have an omni-tool, so my English isn't being auto translated for them. Oh well, might as well keep trying. I let loose a barrage of curse words, each harsher than the last, in hopes that if the content of my taunts does not reach then, then the tone will.

This continues for a tense minute that seems like forever, the batarians losing occasional potshots while I conserve my ammunition. Eventually, though, my words and the blood soaked body of their companion pissed off another of the batarians enough for him to leap up and charge. His companion lets loose with his shotgun, but he fires wildly and misses.

I let off a carefully aimed shot, but it misses the loud batarian by a small margin and the thug drops into cover, much closer to me than before. But I see that he's behind a bench, and if I dive out, across the open spot and to the other planter, I might be able to hit him.

If I waste any more time, though, he'll move up and shoot me. With no time to waste, I coil my legs and leap. I grunt in pain as I ram into the floor, but I've got my angle, and I focus through the pain long enough to bring up the pistol and shoot. The batarian isn't even aware I've moved, and his right side is in plain view. The first shot rips through him like he's jello, shredding flesh and destroying his kneecap. The batarian shrieks in pain and flops over, clutching his leg.

God, his screams are downright _terrifying_. He's pleading, screeching to me, begging me to not shoot him. For a moment, I lower my pistol, reluctant. Then that little, formerly traitorous part of my brain pipes up. _How many people have begged this guy to spare them? How many has this ganger executed in cold blood, for a little money?_

I blast the bastard's brains out with two more shots.

Then my pistol clicks, as the final batarian jumps out of cover and charges, blasting from the hip. I'm lying on my side barely behind cover, and the batarian is going absolutely batshit crazy.

I would scream in fear, but all my breath is gone, as I huddle as close to my trusty planter. The batarian moves quickly, I can hear his boots clanging against the metal of floor. I would count the shotgun blasts, but I have no idea how many that gun can fire before he needs to reload.

A blast goes off, chipping of bits of the planter above me. But as the batarian sprints closer, I hear the most beautiful sound in the world: _a click_. The batarian stops running, racking the slide of his weapon and fumbling.

I jump up, grabbing my tanto from the ground and unsheathing it as I take off, running faster than I've ever run before. Adrenaline spikes and I throw the tanto's sheath straight at the batarian, striking him on the head. He looks up, just in time for me to _stab _the thug in the chest, as well as running into him and knocking him over. We slam down together, the fall pushing the blade further into his chest.

He punches me in the face, _hard_. My vision starts swaying, but now I'm close enough that I don't _need_ to see. Withdrawing the tanto, I stab again and again, but this bastard _just. Won't. Die._ More punches rain on me, until the batarian actually punches me_ off_ him.

My back hits metal, and I can barely make out the batarian, blood pouring out of his chest, as he keeps hitting me. Blows to the face, to the temple, to the jaw, and I'm slowly losing it as… hints of black….

Oh… I think, deceptively calm…I'm going to die...

For some reason, this is funny, and I want to start laughing, as the batarian's blows gradually decrease. I wonder why he stopped, until the sound of a falling body resonates through the floor. Turning my head sluggishly, I see the batarian, motionless in a puddle of blood. The bastard bled out.

With no more incoming punches, my head suddenly feels worse, as if it had gotten used to the pain. I know this will pass, but before it can, I feel… a little…off…

* * *

><p>Pain, like cracks in glass, spreads across my brain. I'm awake, conscious, but just barely. My back is wet again, and I feel like absolute shit.<p>

It takes a little while to loosen up enough to get back off the ground, and when I do, I have to sit back down against my trusty planter. All my adrenaline has finally drained away, but that just means that I can feel the aching in my shoulder from when I smashed into the ground. Still, I'd had worse, and with a grunt of effort, I clamber to my feet. I kick a pistol accidently as I do, and I reflexively scoop it up.

The first thing that I really look at is the corpse of that last batarian, still clutching his stab wounds. I stare at the body, feeling nothing, but after a minute, I begin to feel a small sense of … pride?

I recoil in disgust, not at the blood-soaked corpse, but at myself. I just _killed_ a person! Why the hell am I feeling proud? _I am a murderer!_

Except… I _am _proud of killing the thug. He was a criminal, after all. How was this any different from the self-defense or vigilante justice I had supported before? I had always been a firm Second Amendment adherent, but this was not the same!

This time,_ I _was the one who had killed three people in my own defense.

I was about to consider the immediate ramifications of this new development in my life, when I heard a _tap…tap…tap._

What little adrenaline remains in my body surges forward, and I quickly and silently duck behind a bench. Peeking through the thin slits in the metal, I search for whatever made that noise, and settle on a metal stick.

For a moment, I wonder what the rod is, when the tapping comes again, and the pole moves. Oh, I see. It's a crutch.

A crutch supporting a limping batarian, his right arm was swaddled in a crude cast.

The Batarian moves just inside the courtyard, and rapidly spots the still carcasses of his goons. He's shocked, and quickly tries to hobble away from the courtyard, that is, as fast as his crutch will let him. If I let him go, he'll just go get more mooks to chase me. I can't allow that. This may make me a killer, but I'll be damned if I'm going to just keel over and die.

"Hey! Asshole!" I call out, rising from behind the bench and aiming the pistol at him.

The Batarian turns, all four eyes widening as he sees me. No more guilt, I tell myself. This one has it coming. The Batarian tries to limp away, but I open fire. The first shot hits the Batarian's right hip, spinning him slightly. The second penetrates his stomach. The third barely clips his shoulder, but the fourth is takes his eyes. The Batarian's head jerks back, a river of blood pouring from a massive hole where his face used to be.

Another body collapses to the floor of the courtyard, and I'm in the clear.

I move over to check the body, rolling it over to be face up. The gore disgusts me, and I feel nausea rising, but I bite it down. This isn't any different from a cadaver at the morgue, really.

The more I think about the Batarian's face exploding, the more I focus on the immediate.

I pull my slightly sweaty towel out of my bag and wipe off most of the blood on my person, focusing on the visible areas first. I doubt I'll have a good reception if I walk around coated in blood, though Shepard gets away with it. The towel is a loss, now, so I chuck it in a garbage bin.

That done, I began to loot gear from the bodies in the courtyard, starting with their weapons. Two more M-3 Predators join my first one, though I still don't know how to eject the thermal clip. Coming up to the shotgun wielder, I quickly find a surprise waiting for me. It turns out that the batarian wasn't using the usual M-23 Katana, but a much less streamlined, white and black M-22. What was a Cerberus-only gun doing in the hands of a common thug? Much less a shotgun banned for it's wedge-firing system instead of pellet-firing system.

Whatever. I fumble for a bit, then jab an inconspicuous button. I expect it to fold up; instead it spits a thermal clip in my face. I lean back, but the still hot clip singes my jaw. It burns for a moment, but I ignore it. Hot casings are nothing new to me, even though this one was more scientifically advanced than the others.

I search the batarian's belt, coming up with another clip, which I insert into the now empty spot. The little hatch locks back. Huh. I now know how to reload a shotgun with a thermal clip.

Now knowing the general shape of the ejection port button, I eject the clips on the pistols, and stow them away in my pack. My first pistol I shove in my coat pocket, after figuring out which button folds them up.

Next up, I grab anything that looks vaguely like money. I know they use credits, but when Shepard gets credits from a vault or a terminal, all you see is Shepard waiving an omni-tool. Ah, omni-tools. It takes me a minute, but I find the little datapad-like link-thingy that is belted around the batarians waists, which I figure has to be their omni-tools. I can figure out how to use the devices later, I hope.

Next comes the all-important pocket and bag search, which reveals the mystery of credits finally: blank chips. I stumble across hundreds of tiny metal chips, which all have the number zero glowing softly on the face. Ah, so spending credits is like a check. Or maybe it's literally like a credit card? Probably a combination of both, I suppose. Using cash is now exchanging untraceable chips, and using a credit card is just using your omni-tool to transfer the funds.

But the best is last. In the pocket of the Batarian, the very first thug I met on Omega, I find another omni-tool. Unlike the others, which look older, worn, and shoddy, this one is nice and brand spanking new. I mean, it's literally gleaming. Even better, when I grab it, it opens up and warbles out a bit of nonsense.

"Huh? 'The hell?" I mumble, turning the device end over end.

"Language recognized. Modern English, Human." the omni-tool chimes in a semi-realistic, uncanny-valley voice that is just human enough for to recognize, yet just _in_human enough to bother me. It look's like Microsoft Sam got an upgrade.

"It's looks like you are using an omni-tool for the first time. Would you like help?"

"Uh… yeah. Yeah, that'd be just great, but could we do that in a minute? Pause instructions, or something."

"Instructions paused."

Okay. So now I got a nice new omni-tool, which will hopefully translate my words for everyone else. I've got my first omni-tool, credits, and plenty of guns. Time to hit the town.

* * *

><p>Setting up my new omni-tool took literally five minutes. The holographic interface occupied most of that time, as the device wouldn't register a too-deep or too-shallow keystroke. But other than that issue, tech-use comes pretty easy to me. I don't want to call myself a techie, but adapting to new tech never really posed an issue to me. The only thing I have a problem with about an omni-tool is the lack of a traditional keyboard. But I can't be the only person with that problem, and a patch or adaptation <em>has<em> to exist, or I'll make one.

Luckily for me, enabling the translator software is the easiest task to do on an omni-tool, probably for good reason. It also allowed me to sync omni-tools and snag away more than ten thousand credits off of the batarians' accounts. This model turned out to be a Polaris, made by Kassa Fabrication. When I found that out, I couldn't help but start humming, even when I finally left to get in to Afterlife.

Which is how I found myself standing in front of a tunnel filled with a good twenty or thirty vorcha, all of which were staring at me like a lump of meat. I'd forgotten one of my first realizations: there are a lot more people on Omega (or the Mass Effect 'verse) than the game portrays. Case in point; the vorcha occupied tunnel by the secondary entrance to Afterlife in damn near full of them. I'm guessing that they don't like a human encroaching on their turf.

I'm put off, and I really want to turn right around, but if I have the impression that if I do, the vorcha will jump on me and rip to shreds.

_Just think of it like a bad section of town_, I realize. This is no different from passing several dozen greedy meth-heads looking for money.

_So meet me at Hill-Of-The-Moon…_

I start walking again, descending the steps into the vorcha corridor, and each and every damn one of them is glaring at me. One in particular steps up with a mouth full of jagged fangs.

"You no welcome here!" it snarls. Suddenly, I find that being intimidated of them isn't as big a problem as I thought it would be. Now all I have to do is not laugh at the drool spilling out of his mouth. Hmm… Time to take a risk.

"Back off Shisk, I'm not here to make trouble." I retort, stopping right in front of the vorcha. The others slowly stand up, and I feel a shiver of fear going down my spine. _Don't show fear, these things are pack animals. They'll smell it._

The vorcha recoils, then tries to recover his lapse.

"Why you call me Shisk?" it asks, but its tone gives it away. Vorcha just aren't meant to be liars, I guess. "I no Shisk!"

"Look, Shisk, there's no point trying to lie. Now get the hell out of my way before I decide Aria needs to know about vorcha insolence." I snap, making a cutting motion with my hand. Inside my head, I sincerely hope that I didn't go too far there. Insolence is a big word, after all.

"And what if you no make it back to Aria, human?" Shisk hisses, and I have to think quickly.

"What, you think I'm stupid enough to pass through vorcha country without a backup?" I laugh. "If you kill me, my omni-tool registers my death and sends it to Aria, idiot. And let's just see what she thinks about you killing a messenger bringing her important news."

Might have been a little over-the-top there, but vorcha don't exactly understand subtlety, do they? This hunch proves right a second later, when Shisk scowls and moves to the side. I contain my grin of excitement and walk off. I just bluffed a vorcha out of my way! Granted, the average vorcha is pretty stupid, but _still._

A quick right then a left, and I'm facing a bored-looking batarian bouncer who is guarding the back entrance to Afterlife. I try not to grimace as I approach, thinking _great, more batarians_.

"Need to talk to Aria, pal," I say, handing over five hundred credits. I really have no idea how much is appropriate, but five hundred sounds about right to me, assuming there isn't too much inflation or deflation of money in the future.

"I'll need you to leave the pack here." the batarian palms the credits smoothly, and holds out a hand for my bag.

"What, is Aria no longer capable of using her biotics?" I retort, shaking my head. "I think she can handle one measly man."

The batarian shakes his head again.

"Orders. I have to take the bag."

"Listen, buddy," I interject again. "I know you can scan me right here and now, so go ahead. I've got one pistol in my pocket, two more in my bag, and a shotgun with 'em. Other than that, all I've got is my omni-tool and a couple knives."

The batarian tilts his head at my admission, but I don't see any good reason to lie to him. If I did, I'm sure he'd find out and just shoot me for lying.

Nonetheless, the bouncer lifts an arm and activates his omni-tool, bringing up an image of a human body. Bright red dots highlighted my contraband, with three dots in the pack, one in each of my pockets, and one in my lower back. At the bouncer's gesture, I lift my coat slightly and unsheathe just enough of my tanto for him to see. He nods, content, and waves me through.

I nod back and head into Afterlife, passing through a dim corridor and up into the set of familiar-yet-not stairs. As if on cue, the loudspeaker pipes up, and an announcer begins reading the news.

"And in other news, the first human Spectre, Commander Shepard, has been killed by pirates while in the Omega Cluster. Escape pods from Shepard's vessel, the _SSV-Normandy_, were picked up yesterday by trading vessels orbiting Eingana in the Amada System."

_Shit._

Shepard's _dead._

_Oh shit. Ohhhh shit._

I'm stuck on Omega, at the start of the two-year break between games. That means Garrus is still at C-Sec, Mordin isn't here, and I know absolutely nobody on Omega.

I'm so damn shocked I just stop walking, and lean heavily on the handrail.

_Damnit._

Shepard is dead. Shepard is the Hero, Shepard is supposed to _be_ there. With Shepard dead for his or her two years, then I'm pretty much screwed. No hope of joining the _Normandy_'s crew, or of joining Cerberus. No way I can shoot faster than an ex-Alliance Marine. I don't have biotics or alien musculature. Hell, I'm the kid who almost flunked grade eleven physics, I can't comprehend the complexities of Mass Effect fields and FTL travel.

_But you know ballistics_. _You know caliber and pressure points and blunt force trauma. You're a fighter. You might not like it, but you are. Martial artist, military history buff, hillbilly gun-toter, admit it. You're made for this. You know just enough background knowledge about this time, and have the right mindset to use it._

That knowledge is only useful while things don't change, I shoot back.

_So make little changes. Death of one thousand cuts. Shepard will recruit allies when he returns, and you can recruit the allies she wouldn't. The ones that would never associate with Commander Shepard. You've got two _years_, Nick. Time to go make a difference._

_Now go talk to Aria T'Loak._

* * *

><p>"So, I hear you have information for me, human."<p>

A slight smirk, the one that I was always told made me look arrogant.

"What'd you know about Collectors?" I inquire.

A scowl appears on her face. The guards shuffle uneasily, as if they are expecting her to smear me all over the walls with a _push_. Look's like she doesn't tolerate idiots.

"The Collectors want flesh." I say, dropping my smirk and going serious. "They're paying the Blue Suns to get them slaves. You've seen them, haven't you?"

_Polaris is watching above…_

Aria drops the scowl. Her head tilts, and she regards me less like something she just trod on, and more like a person.

"How do _you _know that?" she demands, for there is no mistaking that tone. Aria wants to know, and she wants to know _now._

"You and two guards stopped a slave-deal between the Collectors and the Blue Suns. The Collectors paid in raw eezo and weapons technology. You killed them all, with biotics, and lost one of your guards. The other one is standing right here, holding a gun to my head. If he had told me, then he would have already blown my brains out."

I turn my head to the right, and sure enough, said guard is holding his pistol straight flush to my head. He looks a little annoyed.

"You don't want to know how I know. You want to know what else I know, you want to pick my brain." Any more, and I think Aria will shoot me just for being bratty. I keep quiet, and wait for her to signal.

Aria sits silently, looking at me. I feel uncomfortable, and I briefly compare Aria to the Headmaster at my last school. Both have the uncanny ability to make anybody feel like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Then I stop the metaphor and compare the six foot tall Scot with the slim, sexy blue alien. Yeah, I can totally see the resemblance.

But then she jerks her head to the right, gesturing towards the couch. Yes! She's actually taking me seriously! That could either be really good or really, _really_ bad. I move over to the couch and sit down carefully, making sure to sit up, facing her equally seriously, rather than lounging. If I relaxed and sprawled out on her couch, she may just kill me out of disgust.

"Go on." she requests.

"It's not just humans. I know for a fact that the Collectors have or will soon contact the krogan Warlord Okeer, for the same reason."

Aria nods, as her guards move back to their usual positions. Apparently, I'm no longer a possible threat. Then I remember that Aria can crush me into a paste with one thought.

"Knowing Okeer's prior character, he'd be crazy enough to drug krogan and deliver them to the Collectors. The various technological advancements they can offer him are more than enough incentive."

"Why?"

"Well, Okeer has always tried to improve the krogan through Darwinism-"

"Don't insult my intelligence." Aria sneers, looking over at me with a hint of annoyance. I backpedal furiously, and try to figure out what she wants.

"Why the Collectors want bodies of different species? Eh, what I think is that they are designing some kind of disease or bio-engineered plague." I shrug. I never liked the ending of Mass Effect 2. It always seemed too stupid.

Yeah, it fits the pattern of abducting colonists, and the oddities of the vorcha plague and Okeer's experiments, but I still think a bio-engineered plague is a much easier option. I mean, Mordin talks enough about making the genophage that you can tell he would have no trouble with creating a special disease for each species. And if he can do that, I think that the Reapers would have no trouble. What about those pods near the end? If they can crush a human down to it's base proteins and nutrients, while having just enough control to _not_ reduce a person to the elements, I think a simple high-transmission rate plague wouldn't be too hard. I know absolutely nothing about higher-level chemistry or anything like that, but if the Collectors could reduce a human to it's raw elements, or even molecules, then why abduct humans? Why not break down asteroids?

"But that doesn't eliminate other possibilities." I continue. "Consider that the Collectors have natural armor and how their guns look like fanged mouths. That _can't_ be natural evolution, so they have to be damn good bio-engineers. If that is the case, then maybe they want krogan for their redundant physiologies? Possibly for enhancing their own musculatures?"

"But why take humans then?" Aria asks. "Krogan are strong. Humans aren't naturally biotic, strong, smart, or have any other special characteristic." Well okay, lady, smack down on the humans if you want, but I've got a rebuttal just waiting.

"But that _is_ a special characteristic." I argue. Aria doesn't look as annoyed, though. Instead, she sits up slightly. She's still reclining in her couch, but she looks more interested. "Explain."

"Well, krogan are strong, yeah. But they aren't very smart, at least not usually." I defend, Mordin's lecture coming back into my head.

"If you look at the average krogan, you can assume he's not the sharpest tool in the shed. But you can't assume that with a human. Sure, I'll grant you that salarians are more intelligent, and asari are biotic freaks, but you can look at a salarian, an asari, or a krogan and guess things like strength, intelligence, or biotic potential. But a human…"

"You can't predict." Aria whispers, intrigued. A hand goes up to her chin, and she stays silent for a minute, obviously thinking hard. I shut up and wait for her to resume the conversation.

"Hmm… so they want human diversity? Why?" she murmurs, before cutting herself off and regarding me again. "So what do you want, then?"

Huh?

"Me?" I say, surprised. "What'd you mean?"

"Everybody wants something." Aria dismisses, turning away and looking up at the ceiling again. "Why bother bringing all this to my attention unless you wanted something?"

"Well…" I mutter sheepishly, "Now that you mention it… I'm kind of marooned on Omega. I've got nothing more than the clothes on my back, and a place to stay for a while might be nice."

_We'll sleep in the old way, out under the stars..._

"Well aren't you interesting." Aria chuckles. "You can figure out a mysterious alien race's agenda, but you're incapable of surviving on your own."

I chuckle in response. That's truer than she thinks.

"Seeing as you helped me, the least I could do is give you a _job_." Aria granted. She waved over a turian guard with a rifle.

"Grizz, can you take our friend here to the guards quarters? It seems he'll be joining us in some position."

"Yes, Aria." Grizz nodded, then gestured for me to follow him. I got up from the oh-so-comfy couch and picked up my pack.

"I guess I'll be seeing you around then." I send a parting quip to Aria. She looks up from a datapad for a second to smirk, then goes back to her work.

Grizz leads me out a small, unobtrusive door near the back lounges, and out onto the streets of Omega.

"So… Grizz, is it?" I venture, trying to kick-start some kind of conversation.

"Shut it."

Woah. Okay, Grizz being very aggressive. Odd, I always thought he was a little nicer to Shepard. Well, I suppose babysitting a young human can't be his favorite thing in the world. One thing I never noticed before though… Grizz is barefaced.

As in, he had no face paint. As best as I understand it, turians wore face paint to distinguish homeworlds, as the turians spread out into their colonies. A turian without face paint is an outcast. A barefaced turian is the equivalent of a human having LIAR carved into their forehead… Actually, scratch that. A human would ask how that poor sucker was brutalized like that. I guess a barefaced turian has no equivalent for humans.

Anyway a barefaced turian is publicly reviled. He can _never_ be trusted to keep his word, despite the Machiavellian whisperings in my ear tell me not to trust anyone _anyways_. I don't know why a bareface doesn't just apply face paint to hide his status, but they don't. A barefaced turian never seems to try to change or disguise his status, though that might be acceptance of their place, I guess.

Saren was barefaced after all. That was probably just Bioware trying to fit the barefaced thing in the codex into that actual game, but how the hell does that work out in the actual universe?

But… that doesn't fit _anything _from the codex entries. Not at all.

Lets see… from what I remember, the history of barefaced turians is from the colonies getting annoyed at each other and fighting their version of the Civil War. To wear your face paint was to show publicly where you were from. So… maybe Saren and his family were supporting Palaven? But then… why are there so few barefaced turians? Surely if the loyalist faction didn't wear face paint, then there would be a _lot_ more barefaced turians running around. And even if the colonists won the civil war, then the loyalists would still proudly bear their barefaced nature, probably even more so.

No, no, no... No face paint means to you haven't declared your allegiance. As the turian society is a weird feudal warrior honor-based type, not publicly declaring your allegiance was to not be trusted, on either side.

Goddamn aliens. If we humans had ever had a system like that, it fell to the wayside a long time ago. A system of that nature can only work if a good eighty-percent or more of the population wear the face paint, as after that, the common nature of being barefaced will make it lose all stigma. In addition, what kind of idiot would publicly declare what side he supported? Suppose he wandered into the wrong bar, or happened to pass by five of the opposing colony in a neutral place? Poor bastard would get killed, because he was stupid enough to declare his allegiance to some side. Wearing a brown coat, or some other identifier of side, can be switched, disposed of, to suit the situation, but I doubt that face paint can be rubbed away in a hurry without leaving large smears.

I'm mean, look at Garrus. Garrus is intelligent enough where he knows to ignore his people's customs if it gets in the way of something good. Smart enough to blunt some edges of his culture, so as not to offend every non-turian he came across. And yet he still wears face paint, because it is the standard. Because it simply _is _done. It'd be unthinkable for the son of a C-Sec legend to _not_ have his colony's face paint.

If more turian was smart enough to think about it, break through the cultural norm, then few turians would have face paint. There is nobody forcing you, physically holding you down to apply the face paint, and with the turian unification wars over, no logical reason to have the face paint. All it does for you is identify your colony and make pariah's of the turians who can think enough to discard the face paint.

What if Saren stopped wearing his face paint when he started serving the Reapers? Out of some remnant of his common decency, as if to warn his fellow Spectres and the Council that he could not be trusted? Ugh… this is more complicated than I thought.

On the other hand, I haven't had a puzzle like this to crack in a _long_ while, and it look's like the rest of this universe will be just like that. I've got my pleasure all laid out for me.

So what if Grizz is being a stuck-up bastard ? I'm on Omega, I'm working for Aria, and I've got a whole 'verse to unravel at my leisure. The background I have tells me that nobody will have the knowledge I posses, or the mindset to manipulate the variables properly.

_And dream of the good time to come..._

I've got the biggest advantage ever, like a one-eyed man in the land of the blind.

_We'll dream of the good times to come..._

Well, Time to get to work.

* * *

><p><strong>There <em>is<em> a minor problem with this 'fic, and that is that I wrote the first two/three chapters before ME3 came out, so a few things are glaringly _wrong_ with the revelations of ME3, such as me not liking ME2's ending. After learning that the Reapers want to make more Reapers, it fits; but at the time, I thought it was too melodramatic.**

**Let me make this clear right off the bat, I _hate _most Mass Effect Self-Inserts.**

** Other than the usual shitty spelling, grammar, and lack of character depth, they are boring and repetitive. Most start off on the nice, safe, Citadel. The SI joins C-Sec, learns to fire a gun and is an instant expert, figures out the advanced technology effortlessly, and in general becomes as badass as a _N7 Black Ops member_, one of the most elite members of the _entire human race_, as good as the graduates of a mixed warfare schools formed out of the best of the US Armed Forces, SAS, GSG9, JTF2, Mossad, Spetsnaz, and every other badass organization (I don't have the room to list them all).**

**I shouldn't need to describe the logical problems in such an approach.**

**I've been shooting guns since eight years old, am a brown belt (seven years) in Karate, and am quite good in a variety of sports. I like to think I'm very independent and can survive by myself. I am probably one of the more capable _non-military_ people in our Home Universe.**

**So naturally, _I will still get my ass kicked_ by everyone and everything out there. A normal Alliance Marine, the kind you see massacred all over the place, can kill me. A member of our military IRL can kill me. I am _not_ a badass. I'll admit it, as much as it hurts my pride.**

**Instead of taking a place I don't deserve in Shepard's Squad, I'll be taking a different approach, as well as trying to actually _flesh out_ the Mass Effect backstory. This is not AU (at the start anyway), this is not contain Author Powers or make me a God Mode Sue.**

**But I can't rely on myself, because I'm just a human being, as flawed as any other normal human being, so I'll need you guys to keep me honest.**

**So, readers, what do you think?**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: I've had a tough time with this chapter, not in the least because I originally had no intention of making this anything more than a one-shot. Then again, I originally never even intended to publish the first chapter. So that tells you all you need to know about the quality (or lack thereof) of writing in any future chapters, including this one.**

**The crisis stems from the release of Mass Effect 3, and the obvious changes that would have on my writing, as information is updated or changed or ret-conned altogether. This _really_ messed me up.**

**As in, I was considering scrapping the second chapter and calling it a one-shot. But given that I'd already written most of this down, I was opposed to that based simply on the fact that I dislike discarding words. It takes me long enough (Yeah, you guys know just how long) to write up a chapter, so when I actually do, I _really, really_ don't want to toss away something that took me that long to write.**

**After a fair bit of thinking, I came to a conclusion.**

**The appeal of writing a Self-Insert is that you don't have to immerse yourself in another character (you know, because _clearly_ there will be no other characters except you), so if I ignored Mass Effect 3, I would have to return to my old, pre-ME3 opinions, which would defeat the purpose entirely. I wouldn't be able to talk to certain characters without _screaming_ on the inside about what happens to each of them in Mass Effect 3, and thus it would change all of my interaction with them. Whereas before ME3 came out, any talking scene without technological discussion was so easy to write, because I just write exactly what I would say in if I were really in that position.**

**Luckily, however, the solution was simple. See, my personality hasn't changed, the outside information has. So really, my reactions and interactions are be the same now as they would have been before Mass Effect 3. Instead, I '_always'_ knew about the Mass Effect 3 plot and stuff (which makes my throwaway line in this chappie about Aria falling for Harper's tricks even better in hindsight. I was talking about something else originally, but it works out perfectly in the end), because there will be no difference between me in the first chapter and me in the second chapter.**

**However, I do have to say… I wrote most of this second chapter before I got Mass Effect 3, so this is vintage, pre-Mass Effect 3 me. Expect no Mass Effect 3 plot-related spoilers until the next chapter. Hence why I am surprised and angry that Cerberus turns out to be evil jerks, instead of expecting it.**

* * *

><p><strong>18:46 Omega 'Time'<strong>

**September 1st , 2183**

**Afterlife, Afterlife District, Omega**

"I'm telling you, man, this varren was _this_ big!"

"Sure." I drawl, bored out of my mind.

The drunken Alliance Marine was trying very hard to properly replicate the size of his fabled albino varren, but quickly succumbed to the historical flaw of barstools.

With a dull _thud_, the drunk hit the floor, the turian bartender we were chatting with grimacing. The turian bartender leaning on the bar sighed, then gestured for me to get on with it.

I reached down, scooping up the now-unconscious drunk and hoisting him upright.

With a grunt of effort, I lugged the guy down the back entrance to Afterlife, before dumping him on the side of the walkway. With luck, some of his buddies would pick him up.

Re-entering Afterlife, I nod to Grizz, who just snorts and looks away. Moody bastard hasn't gotten any better at the whole comradeship thing, but at least he doesn't act like I'm vorcha-bait anymore.

It's now been about a week since I first arrived at Omega, and it still shows. I've been trying to keep away from pop-culture references, or noting game facts or such.

The only way I'm going to survive, much less thrive, is if I think of this like living in a foreign country I know nothing about.

No commenting on 'Captain' Gavorn, or the Battle of the Citadel, or anything like that, other than most bare of facts. I say just enough to convince someone that I know all about it, but not enough to spike their curiosity.

In Afterlife, I fill the stopgap between all the jobs. I'm not mopping the floors or anything so lowly as that, but oddjobs fill up most of my time. Dealing with drunks is usually the bouncers job, but Aria (sensibly, of course) would rather I do it, so that the bouncers can stop any bar brawls.

This type of decision is par for the course for Aria, as the extra bouncer present around the club because of me has stopped a number of drunken patrons from fighting (usually the krogan or batarians).

My other jobs are just as odd, usually involving either manual labor or applied thinking, like dealing with mercs coming in to collect on bounties in the club. Of course, mercs taking skulls on the dance floor tends to cause us problems, but I like to think I've managed to cover the issue in a distinctly Aria-like way. I simply told the mercs that it's smarter to wait for their drunken target to stumble out, and then take him while he's inebriated. It was hard at first to convince them, but after the first couple times, the mercs start listening to you.

As best as I can tell, she's testing me. Manual labor to see if I'll complain, and applied thinking problems to see if I'm intelligent enough to be a useful tool. This scares me less than it normally would, I thought after reflecting.

After all, Aria wants useful employees.

In many ways, Aria is like a female Machiavelli, and if I didn't already know just how that would work out for her in the future, I would have sworn that she would rule this place until she died.

Oh sure, another asari may take over, but with Aria as an 'advisor' or some similar position, where Aria could still rule without the public display of power. Okay, so the intelligent and well connected would know that Aria was still in charge, but a common gunman with a grudge would kill the dummy, not Aria.

Of course, Aria is canonically supposed to fall for Harper's tricks. Let's just see the Illusive Man, or Harper, or whatever his name is try to fool her with _me _around to tip her off.

Speaking of which…

"What is it now?" Aria questions, looking up from a datapad she'd been reading.

"I've been thinking a little bit about last week." I start, as Garka dissuades a common drunk from entering Aria's booth.

_**CRACK**_

Even after a rough childhood and a week here on Omega, Garka breaking the man's arm makes me flinch.

Maybe it's because of the advances in medical technology that people in this time are so damn careless about wounding or maiming a person. Or maybe it's just the way people are, this far down. Sure, I've seen some shit growing up, but I never immersed myself as deep in the criminal world as I am now.

My brain, still ticking despite that disturbing turn of thoughts, reminds me to look up cybernetics and augmetic technology when I get the chance.

"I took a little while to inspect a shotgun I got of a batarian thug." I continue a little shakily, pulling out the shotgun in question.

Unfolding it, while pointing carefully away from Aria, I begin to show her key features of the M-22 Eviscerator.

"It's a radical design, and against multiple Council laws. Reason is simple, it doesn't shoot a ball or a grain: it fires a wedge. That gives the shot more range, up to the range of human pre-mass effect shotguns, actually. It flays people alive, pierces armor like nothing else on the market."

Aria's looking bored again, but with a week of practice, I can tell she knows that I'm going somewhere with this.

"But I guess the manufacturers weren't as good as the batarian companies, because they couldn't bribe, bullshit, or persuade the Council to give them a special allowance to make these. With the company forced to give up the weapon, the original FRM's vanished. With this," – waving the shotgun again for emphasis - "I know where it went now."

"Thugs." Aria utters, deadpan. She's annoyed that I wasted her time, I can tell.

"No." I respond, handing the shotgun to her and pointing out a small logo inlaid in the grip. Now let's see if she recognizes it.

"Cerberus…" Aria murmurs, her aggression gone and her interest back. Damn, I was actually kind of hoping she didn't know. If she knows about Cerberus beforehand and _still _gets tricked by Harper, then maybe she isn't as smart as I always though she was.

"And the question of 'why do thugs have this' was answered next," I resume, sending her a copy of the report I pulled off of the batarian thug's omni-tool.

She's silent as she peruses it. To be fair, when I read the document, I damn near broke my omni-tool I was so angry.

Cerberus always had seemed like a bit of jerk in the games, but until you turn against them they just seem like someone who is doing what needs to be done, and that everyone else is naïve.

But… this datapad changes all of that.

Slavery. Drug trafficking. Gun running. Blatant abuse of human rights. Sentient rights. Whatever.

Cerberus is effectively using this gang of batarian pirates as it's criminal front. Every activity that they want plausible deniability for, they use their own gang of slavers. And lucky me, I managed to run into the worst, most ineffective courier that they employ. Of course, the entire gang is _much_ bigger than just the thugs I dealt with, so I'm hoping that they don't figure out that I killed a few of their members.

Guess Cerberus was –will– deceiving –deceive?– Shepard quite effectively in the second game, although their true colors come out quite visibly in the third. Ugh… future-past tense trouble.

"This gang, are they all dead?" Aria asks.

Huh?

"Well, I killed four of them, including who I thought was the leader, but there's no way that was all of them. Why?" I answer absentmindedly, my head flashing back to that fight.

Sparring is one thing, but killing four people, even in self-defense, is something that you _need_ massive amounts of training to deal with. As much as I respect the military, I'm not a Marine or a Ranger or even a _normal_ soldier. My training is on self-defense, not on psychological well being after shooting someone.

As if on cue, my hands start trembling. Irritated, I clench them, trying to get them to stop. As I do, I glance up, and see that Garka is glaring at me, having noticed my hands, so I stop trying to stop the shaking and start listening to Aria again.

"They aren't paying any fees."

_What the hell._

My shock must be very evident on my face, because Aria looks at me in disgust.

"You think we don't see thousands of slavers and rapists pass through here daily? What makes these ones so different?" Aria explains condescendingly, now angry with me again.

Damn, I just can't stay on her good side.

I open my mouth to defend my shock, to go off on how we really should crush these slavers on principle, but I close my mouth again as I realize that she's right.

Omega is the hub of the criminal underworld. Thanks to Aria staying in power, it's the only place where criminals from all walks of life can meet without any one side dominating the playing field.

Sure, the Blue Suns pretty much own several worlds, but here the Blue Suns and the Eclipse and the Blood Pack can meet with the guarantee that the odds won't be skewed to badly in favor of the other side.

Garrus will be doing a number on that when he finally gets here as Archangel, but the self-righteous do-gooders aren't that rare here on Omega.

I'd just be one more idiot shouting about justice before getting casually gunned down by everybody nearby.

As much as I want to challenge the norm here on principle... that'll only get me killed, and the stations of canon would be preserved. Billions would die, because I couldn't see the bigger picture.

I'm... gonna have to ignore this. But damn if that isn't hard. It's probably one of the hardest decisions I've ever had to make, to allow so many to suffer and die because of the 'greater good.'

"Nothing," I finally respond. "But that doesn't stop me from wanting to kill every last one of these bastards."

"And if you do, what do think will happen? That everyone they raped or enslaved will be free and happy? Grow up, boy." She sneers. "You're in the real world now, and it's time you got used to that."

"Heh." chuckles Garka. "Looks like growing up safe and protected on Earth didn't prepare you for life, little human."

Okay.

_Fuck_ it.

Aria can have her points, she's smart enough to make them. But _Garka_? The bodyguard? Hell _No._

"Garka, shut up." I snap. Aria looks back up from her omni-tool, some skepticism in her expression.

"What did you say to me, human?" Garka barks back, his hand creeping towards his pistol.

"I told you to _shut_ the _fuck_ _up_." I say again, turning to face him.

Garka may be a tough-as-nails batarian thug who's been in that business for a long time, but he's also a little shorter than your average human, and I'm just a smidge taller than that. I stand as tall as I can, looming over him.

"Garka, I worked every spare second I had as a brat. I learned to recognize a meth addict by sight from a hundred yards away. My town is a shithole, with no economy and no jobs. I don't care if you were raised from birth to be a super soldier, _don't_ insult my upbringing."

His pistol is out now, and I can see the look in his eyes. He's close to pulling the trigger, but he's worked for Aria long enough to know to ask her permission before he blows my brains out all over her nice couch.

"I don't care if you had to eat radroaches for food, human." Garka snarls, hand tightening on his gun. "And besides, nobody uses that crap meth anymore. Red sand is the product now."

"Yeah," I retort, "For those who have it. Tweakers from my town aren't smart enough or connected enough to get red sand. Meth is still the most common drug for us, you idiot! Have you ever seen a person doing jumping jacks shirtless in the middle of a stormy night just to burn off all the energy they get from it? I've had more classmates drop out of school for drugs in my town than the rest of the goddamned _country."_

Garka's still pissed I lipped off to him, but he's slowly coming down off the impulse to blast me into whatever comes after this life. This in mind, I turn away from him to face back to Aria. Her eyes are narrowed again, and I can tell she thought I was going to shut up and take the insult.

"So while, yeah, I agree with you and Aria, agree that I need to start understanding this hellhole a little more, that doesn't mean I'm a sheltered rich _brat_ who's here because he got tired of swimming in money."

Aria doesn't react other than lean back in her couch and go back to reading her omni-tool. Garka's no longer angry, but I can tell that we're not going to get along soon. There's an awkward silence, and just before I can go off to help Grizz or one of the bartenders, Aria speaks up again.

"How amazing is this design?" Aria questions.

I'm a little put off that she wasn't more affected by my rant, but she's probably used to sob stories and shitty childhoods.

"Going for the historical angle, pretty damn big." I reply, plopping down on the 'outsider' side of the couch, where Shepard will sit in two years.

"Historical angle? Keep in mind who you're talking to, human." Aria ripostes, a light smirk at the supposed insolence.

"Oh, sure, you're over three hundred years old and I'm barely eighteen, but it _really_ is a revolutionary development, as in, one that will be remembered in history. I mean, to use a human example, it's impact will be like the development of the copper-jacketed bullet back in the late nineteenth century." I explain, hoping that they'll understand what I'm getting at.

Aria seems vaguely interested, and Garka just looks like he'd be much happier busting kneecaps. Actually, he probably would.

"This isn't an amazing design or technical genius; fine, it's advanced, but the underlying idea is so simple that it could be applied to any small-scale mass effect weapon." I go on, laying the shotgun on the floor, adding Garka's pistol after asking permission.

"Dreadnoughts and such use more traditionally shaped ammunition, but the size of small arms has always restricted the capabilities, the muzzle velocity, of the mass effect field, so a ball or a small sphere is always the ammunition, and the folding mechanism only hinders that capability more. But this invention clearly doesn't take up too much space; it can still fold down to a small bundle. Hell, it's still smaller than most pre-mass effect rifles from Earth, and I'll bet that's the same for other species too. So what if our guns are a little bigger, that just means we carry some additional weight"

"So you think that this will be the next step in small arms weaponry?" Garka spoke up.

I'm more than a little surprised that he actually entered the conversation without smacking down on the human punk, but I'll go along with it.

"Maybe." I say.

"What'd you mean _maybe_?" Garka demands. "You wouldn't shut up about how advanced this gun is."

"Again, the only example I can give you is from human history, but I'm thinking of this advancement like the hollow point bullet for us. Sure, the impact, the long-term effect on weapons will be as big as the first copper-jacketed bullets, like I said, but jacketed bullets weren't banned, like the hollow-point was." I clarify, setting down my omni tool on the floor and hitting a button.

A thin white beam of light shoots up for a little distance, showing that the display was ready to be use. A simple function, really, like a kids toy. It used the omni-tool's holoprojector to allow me to draw diagrams, simply by using a sensor on my index finger. Only the index finger will 'draw' anything, and only when it's extending from my balled-up fist. There _is_ a function for using multiple fingers, but I don't need anything that complex for my diagram, and I doubt I'd be able to master that function in a couple days.

"The hollow point was made so that when it hit a target, it flattened and expanded, using up it's kinetic force, unlike some other bullets that would shoot out the back of the target, and still keep some of their energy." as I speak, I doodle out a couple clumsy looking bullets, one with a 'crater-head' and one with the deeper hollow-point.

"But just like this shotgun, hollow points, or 'crater-heads,' were banned by the Hague Convention. But because someone had invented a different type of bullet, a new design, he inspired other to create other types, like the full metal jacket, which fragments, and was not banned by the Convention."

Well, maybe it didn't _quite _work like that way back then, but really, do these guys need to know the precise history of a bullet? All they need to know is that the design will work.

"So you think that because someone made a mass effect field grab more than a simple ball, someone else will make one for other designs." Aria sums up, looking thoughtful.

If she played this right, maybe 'nudged' a company the right way, she could easily be responsible for a weapons revolution. That'd help Shepard, certainly, but it might also make her have to carry around magazines of metal, changing the gameplay.

_You're not in a game_, my brain ripostes._ Let him or her carry magazines as well as heatsinks. All that matters is giving the Reapers as much pain as you can._

"Yes. But in a more immediate sense, it might be possible for us to replicate this development." I grin, releasing my snare.

Aria's head snaps back up to me, and I can tell she knows exactly what I'm talking about. Garka's a little slower to realize, but after he understands, he'll love this.

"Who says we can't start that process right now, by ourselves? We don't have to get a testing lab or change the design ourselves, just employ a permanent gunsmith in the group, and get him to modify or make all our guns shoots wedges. The Council isn't here to stop us in the Terminus Systems, right?" I explain, as Garka joins me in grinning.

"We'd have the edge over those damn mercs…" he murmurs, looking at his pistol longingly.

"More accurate, more lethal, hell, it'd give us the advantage to take over a planet if we wanted to."

Unlike both of us, Aria isn't grinning, however. True, she looks happy about the development, knowing her she's already predicting a problem.

"We don't have a gunsmith." Aria cuts in.

Garka's grin cuts out, and I frown.

Right.

That's a bit of a problem. No changes without a gunsmith.

Plus, this wasn't exactly the land of experts here. Sure, Omega has amazing scavengers, but even if those scavengers had enough technical savvy to make the necessary changes, there was no guaranteeing their loyalty.

This wasn't a scavenger job, though. True, the engineer wouldn't have need to go to a specific school to make this change, but this modification would be more than just smacking the gun a couple times.

We'd need somebody smart, somebody who lives and breathes weapons, somebody who could create this modification on his own if he wanted to.

_Wait a minute…_

A smile broke out across my face again.

"I think I might know where we can find an great gunsmith." I explain, as Aria shoots me a questioning look.

"Loyal?"

"I'd have to explain how working for you can benefit his people, and you might have to be give some concessions to them." I absentmindedly go on.

A quick glance shows Aria very annoyed. Oops.

"Explain." She snaps. "_Now_."

"No-no-nonononono! Not like _that _kind of concessions!" I rush frantically, shooting to my feet and putting palms out to show 'no harm.'

"Concessions like docking privileges, not monetary sums or military aid or _favors_." I scramble.

Lightning fast but yet like in slow motion, my brain reminds me that I want a positive explanation here, one that shows innovative thinking and outside-the-box reasoning.

Images pop up, just as fast-slow, of incompetent assistants blustering just like I am right now, and being summarily shot and thrown out the airlock. Of course, reflecting on that merely makes me see an image of Darth Vader, hand extending to choke me out.

_Focus focus focus_.

If I don't sell Aria on this idea, then I'm dead. But if I do, then I'll not only be responsible for Aria and her ilk having beyond cutting-edge weaponry, but also for goodwill between one of the ruthless leaders of the criminal world and a fleet of immunocompromised homeless tech-nerds.

"Aria, the solution is simple. Hire a quarian." I say, gesturing with my hands , I thought I broke that habit.

Garka's jaw dropped. Aria's expression shifted instantly from anger and annoyance to disbelief and amusement.

"Damn, human," Garka roared, his guffaws deafening me. "And here you'd given me the impression that you were at least halfway intelligent!"

"Quarians_._" Aria said simply. "_Quarians_."

She didn't repeat it again, just looked at me with something in her eyes that I couldn't recognize.

"What's your logic? That the quarians will willingly work with _me_?" she chuckled, a dark undercurrent in her voice.

Garka shuts up the moment she started speaking, of course. I wouldn't say he's a toady, but he's always careful not to get on Aria's bad side, that's a definite.

"I understand Omega's a bad place, but-" I start to say, only for Aria to laugh.

This isn't a small chuckle or a snort, she flat out _laughs_.

Never thought such a small expression could scare the shit out of me like that.

"A bad place? The quarians can't be exposed to any contamination, regardless of its nature. If they open their suit, even the Citadel is to 'dirty' for them. Why would they _ever _want to come to _Omega_?"

Stand fast, Nick old boy, you can do this…

"I'm not saying we have to give them a damn colony, Aria." I retort. It's not harsh, but I doubt she likes it.

"All that I'm saying is that one quarian, just_ one _quarian is necessary. Why quarians? Because what are the odds that a human, salarian, asari, turian, or batarian coming off a shuttle is quality gunsmith?"

"And your _quarian _would be?" Garka's voice is full of derision.

"When you see a quarian, _what _do you see?" I ask, hardening my approach. "One lone quarian, usually on Pilgrimage."

"Pilgrimage?" Aria inquires, her mocking giving way to a slight tinge of curiosity.

I doubt she's interested in my plan, all of the sudden; she probably just wants to remedy this lack of information on quarians. Probably gonna use it to shock some quarian and trick him later.

"Pilgrimage is the quarian coming of age ceremony. Not many outside the quarian fleet know what it is because not many quarians are willing to talk about it.

"More specifically, Pilgrimage is when a quarian is sent out into the open galaxy, to prove their adulthood, via bringing back something that might aid the fleet. Some gather intelligence and information, some buy ships, and some hole up in backwater colonies to research hard physics.

"However, what matters here is the impact to the fleet. Sure, all we need is one quarian weapon-tech on Pilgrimage, there's gotta be a dozen of those in this sector alone.

"_But!" _I jab, enforcing my point, "if we manage to play our cards right, we could argue that our quarian gunsmith's Pilgrimage gift is twofold to the Migrant Fleet. Not only does he bring back the advanced wedge-firing mass effect system, he also improves relations between Omega and the Fleet. True, Omega is a lawless hellhole, where the Fleet isn't likely to vacation, much less build a damn warehouse, but what it does is give them a solid, unchanging port of call."

"You lost me, human." Garka admits, and I can tell it pains him to do so.

I know I'm reading _way_ too much into Aria's expressions, but I think she can tell where I'm going with this.

"Think about it Garka," I coach, careful to keep my tone polite and not chiding. "How are the quarians regarded in the galactic community?"

"They're nothing but vagrants. Whenever they turn up, they cause trouble. We give them 'gifts' to strip-mine for fuel and get them to leave."

"Exactly. They're not the most hated species in the galaxy, but they're the most desperate. So if they're so hated, who do they contact for repairs? Medical emergencies, pirate attack? Because they are so disliked, they deal with most of those annoyances themselves, but they can't scavenge forever, so every now and again they have to purchase the services of a local, non-quarian company or planet for repairs, even new ships when old ones wear out. And you can bet your ass they get ripped off _every damn time_.

"I'm not suggesting we build a huge-ass set of shipyards, or anything so extreme, but if we pull this off properly, whenever the Migrant Fleet has a problem, they come to Omega. After all, a permanent space-borne race is bound to have many problems, things they want to take care of but can't, because of the lack of hospitable locations. They try to hole in some unoccupied binary system, or in deep space, but they run the risk of pirate attack.

"And while they of course have warships and such, what if they took a grazing hit to one of their mammoths, their 'Live Ships'? Where the kids are born, where most of their race is housed? We give them this opportunity, and its not a question of _if_, its a question of _when_. We can still get a damn good profit just by selling them parts and equipment at a lower price than everyone else.

"Besides, even if this grand scheme fails, we'd still have our quarian gunsmith, which is all _we_ want for now."

"This is interesting, I'll admit," Aria drawls, "but do you have a quarian in mind or are you wasting my time?"

I grin. Oh, you bet I've got a quarian in mind. I wouldn't have done that huge lecture otherwise.

"As a matter of fact, I do. Just arrived some time ago, set up a salvage shop. Small, modest little place, _except_ for his shotgun modifications."

Aria nods.

"You don't have permission to hire him. Find this quarian, and bring him to me. If he is as good as you say he is, then I'll consider hiring him." Aria tells me.

"Of course, ma'am." I say, nodding back. As I turn to walk out, Aria calls out behind me: "And take Preitor Gavorn with you."

_Yes._

* * *

><p>Gavorn was waiting for me by the exit, a long rifle in hand, the first one I had seen without a scope bolted on. Instead, Gavorn had two blue holographic sights popping up, Gears-of-War style. I suppose that makes sense, given the messed up urbanasteroid setting of Omega. Holo sights for decently close, and (probably) a zoom function for the longer shots.

"You Gavorn?" I ask, as Gavorn seems to shake himself awake.

"Yeah, that's me." Gavorn drawls, giving me with what I understand to be the turian version of a nod.

Kinda odd to get used to, but I guess it had to do with the turians background or something. I'm not exactly a psychology guy, despite how much I try. Still, when you _know_ that a turian is happy, and he just happens to make a peculiar motion with his head, it's not hard to start associating it with a nod.

"We're supposed to go pick up a quarian from the market, a merchant who Aria wants to talk to."

"Alright. Guess I'm following your lead." Gavorn says as we head off, the crowds parting very slightly for Aria's man.

The people move just enough not to jostle him, like a reassurance that his pocket isn't being picked or something.

Wait, what?

Assholes aren't doing that for me!

* * *

><p>"Kenn?"<p>

Looking up from his sparking welder-attachment, the quarian leaned away from his hunk of metal. With a puttering rasp, the welder cut off.

"How can I help you? Salvage, repair, or something else?" Kenn asked, his flashing helmet light throwing me off a little.

It's the first time I've met a quarian on Omega, though I'm to understand that there is a small community of exiled quarians on our lovely little station. It (meeting a quarian, that is) is different, that's for sure.

I'm used to looking at _how_ a person stands, how they move, given that it shows how much training they have. The weird, double-knee like broken things are messing with my head, and I have to take a slight step back so that the counter is in the way and I don't look at them.

The breath mask doesn't bug me though, not nearly as much as the cables bundled behind it. Gasmasks and breathers I've seen by the dozens, it's just the blinking light that breaks that gentle illusion and let reality crash down on you. Then, next thing you know, you think the poor bastard is hooked up to the Matrix or something, with those cables just dangling behind his head. At least the women have the sense to cover their heads with hoods.

I smile, trying to ease his suspicion at Gavorn holding a rifle. He's probably used to people with guns around here though.

"My employer," I start smoothly, only for Gavorn to cough pointedly.

I turn my head, puzzled, and Gavorn gives me a look that can best be described as _you didn't forget about little old me, did you?_

Oh.

"Sorry," I try again, my smile turning into a bit of a sheepish grin. "_Our_ employer would like to meet you. She's very interested in your abilities as a gunsmith, particularly your shotgun modifications."

"Uh… do I have time to shut down the shop?" Kenn asks, taken aback. "Or, just come later? I have to talk to Harrot–"

"Man, ease up." I say. "Gavorn here can take care of Harrot for you."

Gavorn shoots me another look, but I return a glare and a slight pointing to myself, to say _what, you want me to deal with him? Do you even _want_ to know how bad that will go?_

Big way to communicate, this body-language thing.

"Human, I'm pretty sure you're just as new as I am, so I'll try to speak in small words for you." Kenn jabs in an exasperated tone.

Oh, you bastard! And I liked you a second ago!

"If I don't do what Harrot says, he'll drive me out of business! He's got mercs, and I don't think your employer can help quite as much as you think he can."

Oh, Kenny boy, you don't know what big leagues you're in now. You gotta think a little _bigger_ than that.

"Actually," I reply, another smirk worming it's way up onto my face. "I think Aria can handle a few mercs."

"Aria? You _really _work for Aria?" Kenn yelps, his fear coming straight out to the forefront of those pesky mixing emotions. It's pretty clear he doesn't know what to think at this point.

"Ignore the punk's enthusiasm," Gavorn cuts in, a loose version of a smile budging his taciturn features. "We do, in fact, work for Aria. She's heard wonders about your talents as a gunsmith, and is interested in hiring you so that you can work your miracles on our tech."

Kenn's world has been rocked by this point, and he slumps a little as the reality dawns on him.

"Aria _actually_–" he babbles.

"Yes, Aria_ is actually interested in hiring you_." I enunciate, a little annoyed by this point. "But given that it's _Aria_, we might just want to hurry up and, y'know, go _see her._"

Kenn is babbling a little under his breath, but he dutifully waves his omni-tool and the sign above him loses the neon glow. He grabs a very shiny and _suspiciously_ new M-23 Katana and clamps it to his back, and we head off.

Gavorn gives a sardonic salute as he turns off to the brightly marked Harrot's Emporium.

"Come on." I sigh, trudging off with Kenn in tow.

* * *

><p>About an hour later, I was showing Kenn to his new room underneath Afterlife. It was further down than the cubbyhole I'd gotten, and was fully kitted out, even had an auto-fab, or automatic fabricator.<p>

With facilities like these, Kenn swore, it shouldn't take him long to start modifying Aria's guard's weapons, though he stressed the need to test out his modifications extensively before trying to actually fire one.

Aria seemed happy, but after she had been assured of Kenn's loyalty, she brushed us both off rather quickly, and we buggered off just as some Blue Suns commander came up to meet her. It might've been Tarak, but Blue Suns armor looks exactly the same to me, no differences for rank, so I suppose it could have been a messenger or something.

Kenn and I were also on the fast track to becoming good friends, what with having a common love for 'archaic' pre-mass effect weapons. It seemed that the humans had the most interesting weapons, according to Kenn, and I'm not going to contradict him, seeing as I don't know any pre-ME weapons from the other species out there. Despite it only being a short walk to Afterlife from his old spot, we'd talked fast and gotten acquainted quickly. Kenn, luckily enough for us, loved shotguns more than anything else.

It was apparently his dream to make a shotgun that couldn't cause a hull breach, yet still have enough velocity to shred kinetic barriers with ease. Such a weapon would have enormous potential to the Migrant Fleet for their Fleet Security units, Kenn informed me.

I have to admit, Kenn kind of reminds me of … well, _me_, when I was fourteen. He's energetic, bouncing off the walls with ideas, but unlike me, he's actually smart enough to develop those thoughts, having learned the gunsmith's trade from the skilled hands of his family at a young age.

I managed to divulge a couple of my favorite weapons, though of course for me, the weapons were much more recent. He seemed to like my discussion of the pros and cons of the AR-15 model, and it's most well known forms, the M16, which evidently made it up to the M16A8 before humanity discovered the Prothean ruins on Mars.

He was a little more curious at my choice of the Colt 1911, however. He cited reasons against it, ranging from the superior firepower of the Desert Eagle to the double-stacked magazines of smaller 9mm's and .40 caliber pistols.

"Well, it's not an average gun that can stay in active use by the first-world militaries for over one hundred years." I countered, squeezing past two elcor on the crowded walkway.

"But than can be attributed to the simple lack of better developed pistols." Kenn pointed out, following close behind.

"Yet you just talked about the Desert Eagle and the Beretta. Do you think that the military didn't also think about those weapons?"

"But it was only in limited issue! The main weapon _was _a nine millimeter!"

"What? Limited issue? The _Marines_ were still using the damn thing! Unless you want to say that the Marines couldn't pick good guns."

Kenn groaned.

"Is this going to be what it's like for the rest of my Pilgrimage?" he questioned the air, holding out his hands as if to say 'I give up!'

"Oh, don't worry. You won't be working with me _that_ much." I cheerfully advise him.

* * *

><p>After showing Kenn to his room, I've got a fair bit of free time, so I return to mine, a much smaller room filled simply with my bed, two closets, and a desk. However, this is not the first time that I've been put up in a small area, and boarding school helps a lot when you have to live in a confined space.<p>

A quick trip down to the showers cleans the scent of the slums off me, and I swiftly towel myself off and trot back to my room, nodding as I pass a salarian bartender who looks _really_ curious why I'm walking down a hallway in nothing but a towel. I'll have to catch up with him later and explain.

Or... not, if the way he looked at me was any indication.

Back in my cell, I plop down in my bare metal chair and grimaced as I turned on my extranet terminal. One thing I'd discovered was that you start missing the tiniest things when you are ripped from them suddenly, and my Chair was one of those items. You never think about a simple chair, but then you go from a lovingly restored old leather throne to a skeleton-like metal seat.

You see, I'd once had a lovingly restored leather Chair. It had been my father's Chair, way back when, and I had found it up in the loft of the workshop the summer before my senior year at boarding school. Needless to say, I fell in love with the Chair instantly, and spent a fair bit of time cleaning it up, getting new covers for the arms, and generally improving it. The Chair was perfect; it was comfortable to recline in, the arms were in the perfect position to read or balance a laptop, and the high back lent me a lot of respect when younger kids came to argue or beg about their assigned duties. I'd grown quite attached to the Chair.

Nonetheless... it's a minor issue, no matter how much as it annoys me.

The problem is that it makes me remember _Home_.

I've got a couple of hours now, before my next shift on the floor, so I figure that it's about damn time I do my research on the extranet.

The first thing I check is, of course, Mass Effect. Not surprisingly, there is no knowledge about it. Mass Effect never existed, though almost everything else of history seems to be untouched.

Searching for other stuff is a little problematic from the basic, cruddy search site (Google, why must you be dead?), so Wikipedia, here I come!

Five minutes of futile searching later, I realized that Wikipedia is long dead, replaced by an interstellar encyclopedia, one with a long and boring name, and which was _much _better than I thought it would be. Too lazy to memorize a new name, I dub it Wiki 2.0. Ironically enough, I was only able to find about Wikipedia's fate via Wiki 2.0.

Now on Wiki 2.0, I try to go for basic things. The Battle of the Citadel, for starters.

Well, luckily for me, it looks like Shep's a Paragon. Very lucky, I suppose. Renegade Shep wouldn't be quite as easy to convince about some of my knowledge if/when I finally link up with him.

Or her.

Because the next item on my search list is Shep. Who is apparently a female.

Jane Shepard, born on Arcturus Station, and Hero of Elysium, is now (obviously) listed as deceased. I can't find anything on her game background, i.e. Soldier, Infiltrator, or what have you, but then again the Systems Alliance wouldn't want to spread that information around to just anyone. It looks like I'm lucky to even be reading this much information, since there's a reference at the bottom of the page to the Council ordering the Systems Alliance to de-classify a fair bit of Shep's basic info, to 'rally support for the War Hero that saved us all' or something like that.

Oh look, my old forum is still around! Maybe it's still the same!

...Five minutes later, I was forced to conclude that in one hundred and seventy years, culture _changes_, and internet (or extranet, anyway) culture was no different.

The only similarity to the brilliant and genre-savvy forum I once knew was merely the name; everything else was completely different.

_Well, that blows one idea out of the water,_ I think grimly. I'd hoped to gently propose a few ideas to the site, in hopes that I could slowly start a meme-warfare campaign or possibly a public-awareness fight to inform people about the Reapers, but that hope has been shot down. This annoys me to no end, as I cannot see my old forum _ever_ backing down in the face of internet oppression or social pressure.

But then I remember the TruthHax group, which was a Mass Effect version of the WikiLeaks group back Home. They'd tried something similar, but the 'go anywhere, get away with anything' agents of the Council, the Spectres, had intervened and arrested them all, as well as killing a few of them if I recall correctly.

_Damn. There goes that idea. _Now the only way I could do something like that was if I could find a way to keep the Spectres away, but that'll be nigh impossible when all I have to work with is a couple changes of clothes and the very _dubious_ support of my employer, Aria T'Loak, who I do _not_ want to find out about the truth of my existence.

Aria's one of the top five scariest people that I _don't_ want to learn the truth about me, because I _cannot predict_ what she's going to do. To add to her obvious intelligence, politic connections, and general magnificent bastardry, she's just vague enough in the games that I never really understood if she was a defector from the decadence of the asari, or a psychopathic criminal warlord who controls Omega and does whatever she wants _because she can_.

Looking around the 'real' extranet, not just my old internet sites that survived, it's a real surprise how similar and how different it is from the internet at the same time. A saying that I quickly discover on the old forums rings very true.

'The Extranet: Where the human males are human males, the human females are salarians, the asari are hanar, and the underage quarians are Spectres.'

There is, of course, 4chan. Not a version of 4chan, like I would have thought, but actual, unchanged 4chan. The only difference, of course, being the addition of other species. I'm surprised to see that old memes and in-jokes from 2012 have been phased out, but I suppose that is the way with 4chan. Old things are replaced with newer, more offensive things.

Imagine-sharing sites have boomed, as well. On a lark, I looked up the name of that elcor artist that Nef and Morinth like, Forta, and was immediately hooked up to an absolutely massive site where artists share their work. I don't even want to try to figure out how artists make a profit when their work is out in the open like this, but I suppose the economy of a galaxy is beyond me.

Next thing up is cybernetics or augmetics, whichever they are called here.

Cybernetics are more limited than the games imply, I learn, mostly because the expense. Military implants are standard-issue, and grew steadily more impressive the further up the badass scale you went.

Supposedly, the implants were 'fixed' to shut off or deactivate when it's host left the Alliance, but given all the ex-Alliance mercs running around, I doubt that particular procedure was quite as effective as they said.

Paging through the article, I stop dead when I reach the bottom, my hand frozen on the keyboard.

_Refractive Surgery_

* * *

><p>I haven't always had vision problems. It started when I was young, enraptured by the world of fantasy and science fiction, reading into the wee hours of the morning with dim light.<p>

Heh. I have to admit that the irony is striking. Reading all those books ruined my vision, forcing me to use glasses and contacts. Now it turns out that science fiction might just be able to fix it.

Surgery existed back home, of course. And it's not like I didn't have a professional opinion on the matter. My mother was a doctor, but even then she didn't recommend the surgery highly. The cost was a concern, but not a massive one.

On a personal level, my mother simply didn't trust the surgery to maintain perfect vision after a couple years. It wasn't her specialty, however, so she was not the definite authority on such matters. As well, I could get along much easier with contacts, and I didn't have to time to get the surgery before I was yanked across space and time to Omega.

But it's cheap here. Eye problems aren't an issue anymore for society because the surgery takes an hour tops, and recovery time is only two days. It's so common that I can get it done here on Omega, assuming I trust the doctor.

And that's only for the few poor saps who somehow missed out on the mild genetic improvements that have been done to pretty much the entire human race. I'm a little wary about the fact that I wasn't able to find any modern transhumanists that want to touch the subject of cyborgs. The genetic side seems to be accepted and commonplace, but anything beyond that looks to be taboo.

Not just taboo, but they're not looking outside the box. Hell, it's like most of humanity forgot that there _was_ a box.

But I'm getting ahead of myself, off-topic, and distracted.

No more contacts. No more fumbling blindly in the morning. No more blurred shapes and imprecise movements. No more stumbling, clumsy motions.

That may not sound big to you, but I'm a little… _different_ in that sense. I'm not a control freak for everything, but when I'm injured, exhausted, or sick, the thing that bugs me isn't the sickness, pain or fatigue; it's the impairment of my usual abilities. Superhuman powers are _far_ beyond me, but I am very comfortable with my capacity to randomly roll, or sprint, or evade three thugs and fight them off. It's the same damn _itch_ that stops me from having more than a courtesy beer or two when everyone else is drunk.

I'm sober sally, because that slight coordination deficiency is the most maddening aspect of life to me. After the first time I got buzzed, I just knew that I could _never_ get drunk. My mind would _tick_ and _scratch _at me until I regained perfect motor control. Sure, one or two beers was fine, but...

Clear, crisp fluidity awaited me. Cost was not an issue; I still had the money from some of Cerberus's batarian lapdogs. All I had to do was ask Aria for time off for the surgery and the recovery period. Heck, I can get a trusted doctor from her; it would be in her best interest to have her employees working at top efficiency, after all.

How to explain it to her though? It's _too_ common. True, they can easily perform it on older ages, but older ages rarely need it because they got it as children, if for some reason genetic improvement hadn't eradicated from their family line ages ago. I will stand out simply because I _should've _had it when I was younger, when the degeneration of my eyes was first noticed.

Well, I suppose, I can bluff through it, and if she really bothers to ask, play up the 'backwater town' card, though I'm going to have to be careful not to say 'backwater planet.' I don't want to lie if I don't have to.

Damn, these pesky morals kept getting in my way, the logical side of my brain groaned. If only that stupid emotional side could be cut out entirely, all tasks could be completed quickly and efficiently, with no room for errors.

Morals are what separate us from the animals, retorts the emotional side.

What are we, if not caring for our fellow human beings? Well, sentient beings, but the point stands.

Why bother even getting up in the morning if you were ruled solely by logic? Logic says that we will all die eventually, so why bother doing anything?

The burning desire to _live_, to go out and live life to the fullest is what makes us human (well, mortal). Without morals, there would be nothing to distinguish us from the sociopaths and cruel killers that thrive on Omega.

_We have to have certain standards_ comes unexpectedly out of nowhere. I frown, pursing my lips as my old motto from boarding school re-emerges. I haven't had thought of it since Closing Day, since I last said it to a kid I considered my successor, as hilariously inappropriate as that is for someone barely into college.

Certain standards have to be maintained, for if not, if we are inconsistent and fickle, why do we bother?

I will not put on a show for one person, befriend him, and then stab him in the back as soon as he turns. Others may do that, may act heartless for an advantage, but that is not the way for humanity to progress. It's not the way for any sentient race to progress, selling each other out for survival. When the Reapers come, it'll make Saren's of us all.

On the backburner of my mind, I wonder how I got on the question of the necessity of morality off of a comment about not lying about something Aria probably doesn't give a shit about, but the tangent is providing a lot of food for thought.

After all, when the Reapers come, I'd rather die fighting than surrender to become the next version of the Collectors.

A blaring alarm jolts me out of my thoughts, and I whack the side of my old digital watch, which promptly ceases it's ringing. A little curious, given my omni-tool, but I as I found before, old habits die hard, and I've used the same kind of watch for six years, even if I occasionally have to replace one.

More to the point, the alarm means it's about twenty minutes to my shift, so time to go up to the floor.

I dress swiftly, pulling on my nice, but weathered climbing pants that still bear a couple of wrinkles from being balled up in my backpack. A now-clean muscle shirt/crew top follows, and I button up my worn and stained overshirt, leaving the top buttons undone so that I can stay cool in the heat of Afterlife.

The floor may be ventilated, but enough with enough people stuck in the crowd, any space is going to start heating up quickly, and with Afterlife open twelve-hours a day (and thank God that Omega runs on Earth's sidereal day, even without any change in lights. I don't even want to think about what hell I would be going through, adapting to a different clock), it'll be hell to keep cool even if you packed the walls with ice rather than artificial flames.

The symbolism of working in Afterlife is conspicuous to me, but I find it strangely appropriate. To get to this time period (or universe), it could be said that I'd died and passed away, and am now working at the start of my afterlife _at _Afterlife.

Lastly, I lace up my runners, test to make sure my tanto is within easy reach, and snatch up my cap from it's nest on my bedpost, and I'm out the door. A check of my watch tells me I've got fifteen minutes to get up to my supervisor, so just enough time to stop by Aria and ask about the surgery.


	3. Chapter 3

**12:11 Omega 'Time'**  
><strong>September 8th, 2183<strong>  
><strong>Omega, Afterlife District<strong>

About two weeks into my time on Omega, I got 'stuck in' as a full member of Aria's organization.

By which I mean I got in a firefight.

I was going with an asari, Liselle, to 'meet' one of Aria's supporters, Marsh.

Marsh was an NPC from Mass Effect 2 who ran the Omega 'market', which was apparently fully legal. Surprising, considering Omega. Due to the fact that Marsh's products were actually legal, compared to the Omega black market, he needed his relationship with Aria to be able to reliably sell his products without losing profits due to import costs, or any other assorted problems.

Aria had called me up to talk in the middle of my shift on Drunk Duty, so when I went up I was still in my twenty-first century gear. Liselle was standing there waiting for me, a bemused look appearing her face when she saw me.

After a brief explanation of our task, I retrieved my coat and we were off, moving past through the crowds with a practiced ease, squeezing past elcor and brushing past vorcha, even spying the rare quarian.

One particularly dumb human decided to try a get a feel of Liselle, and her response left him moaning on the ground, clutching his groin. His mates, for some odd reason, did not appreciate it.

Personally, while I was disgusted at his actions (in addition to internally recording him onto my own Darwin Awards list), Liselle wasn't exactly trying to discourage actions like that, what with her… certain… manner of dress. Matriarch Aethyta talked briefly about 'commando leathers' indicating that the Asari Commandos hadn't always used hardsuits, but I'd never thought that any examples might still be around.

Promptly, one of the dumb ganger's friends decided to 'waste the asari bitch,' or something like that. He screamed his anger at 'Aria's thugs' and opened fire through the crowd.

Unsurprisingly, given his state of jittery drug-induced mania, the ganger missed, his rounds plinking away at metal a couple of meters from me.

The crowds thinned out rapidly, with the ease of long experience, and Liselle and I were left fighting several gangers, all human. They wore sleeveless jackets, all an ochre shade, with matching headbands. I guess it was some kind of gang uniform, but frankly I had other things to worry about.

Which leads me to my current realization: nearly perfect vision (for a human, that is) was fething sweet. I could see everything in wonderful detail, and I could very quickly identify where the attack was coming from, if there was any flankers (there wasn't), and if we were facing any specific enemies like mechs or collectors (just human gang members, luckily).

Maybe my last set of contacts was the wrong prescription, because I know I couldn't see _this _good before.

I'd dropped down hastily, crouching behind a metal barrier, while Liselle rolled her eyes next to me and muttered something about arrogant punks. A quick flash (albeit a dim one) of purple l told me she'd formed up a biotic barrier, and I clumsily made sure my own meager kinetic barriers were active. I pulled out the Cerberus-issue M-3 pistol I'd taken from the batarian thugs on my first day and turned it on, the barrel extending with a nice fluid motion.

While my knowledge of the first game is very shaky compared to my knowledge of the last two, I do remember that everyone else will be using Elkoss Combine this, or Kassa Fabrication that, varied types of guns that I can't recall anything else about. The M-3 Predator was made by… I think the same guys who made a bunch of stuff for Eclipse and Blue Suns, but was-

More rounds pinged overhead, and wild catcalls and jeers sounded, scornful of our apparently gutless hiding.

_Think about guns later dammit._

Then Liselle pops out of cover, and blows off one of the ganger's faces with an almost contemptuous ease, and the yells turn angry. I glance over at her, my head shaky from the adrenaline of the firefight. She grins at me, completely at home with the conflict.

"Don't worry, there's only five more idiots, and they don't even have shields," her light, distinct voice teases.

I'd noticed a slight bit of an accent on Aria before, though that might've been her tone, and now I heard traces of the same inflection here.

"I'm sure that if you hurry, you might even be able to kill one."

Damn it, gimme a moment. I'm not exactly used to the whole shooting to kill thing; I need time to adjust!

Of course, I don't say that. Better not to give Aria anymore reason to doubt or belittle me.

I peak over the lip of the walkway and got a quick glimpse of the layout, before hurriedly pulling my head back down. The lip of the concourse was a protective shell for us, and the gangers were a good dozen meters away.

A definite bonus to mass effect weaponry, the back of my brain mused, was the noise. This many pistols in my old time would have been deafening. These newfangled small arms, on the other hand, were about as loud as Hollywood always inaccurately portrayed guns to be.

I move up from the low wall, bringing my pistol up in a tight, two-handed grip that lines up square with the yelling face of a thug. I squeeze the trigger, once, then again, and blood starts dripping from the human's stomach as he crumples and as I crouch back down. I was aiming for the guys face, but I'll be happy with him out of the way, regardless.

Liselle simply raises a stick-thin eyebrow as I look at her, before glowing a bright blue and _gesturing_.

My eyes widen as the remaining four would-be gangsters floating helplessly in the air, bouncing around without gravity.

It's the first time I've really seen biotics in action, and it shocks me for a moment, and then Liselle's gunshots shake me out of my stupor. She effortlessly puts down two of the muggers, so I follow up with three shots that finish off the others.

After a moment, the biotic power, a Lift I guess, fades, and the bodies fall to the floor with dull _thumps_.

_Oh my God._

_I just killed someone._

_They're… dead. _

My horror is cut short as Liselle strides over to the bodies, hips swinging gently.

Desperate to avoid thinking about the corpses before me, my primate-like brain seizing open one thing, and one thing only: the way that her commando leathers adhere to her backside.

I swear that she's swing her hips like that intentionally, and when she crouches down to search the bodies in a peculiar way, that suspicion is only confirmed. A blush lights up my cheeks.

Guiltily, I look away, trying to focus on any other gang members that might pop out of the woodwork. As Liselle joins me, she brushes past, mischievously smirking back at me.

"Well?" comes the playful voice. "Are you coming?"

Goddamn tease!

We walk away, the deserted street empty save for the six bodies trickling blood. I concentrate on not giving Liselle the implication I'm a dirty pervert, and the next few minutes pass in awkward silence.

I didn't notice 'till later how Liselle had effortlessly distracted me from the horror of death. If I had looked for one more second, I would have puked at the sight.

"So, you think any more thugs will show up?" I finally try, uncomfortably attempting to restart our disturbed conversation.

"No, I don't think so." Liselle answers, her tone a little far-off. "These fools were obviously hooked up on some kind of drug. Judging by their eyes, probably 'Slaught. The rest of their ilk won't be so stupid. In fact, they'll probably be rushing to apologize to Aria for the mistake. These things happen every so often."

"I thought the mercs didn't dare challenge Aria?" I ask, a tad puzzled.

"Oh, yes, the mercs understand that it's best to not test her, but these scum just aren't smart enough to get the message, I guess."

I nod along, guessing that it's better at this point to follow along. After the excitement of that last quick firefight, I can't really think or analyze anything right now.

Liselle turns a corner when I'm not expecting it, and I have to jog to catch back up. As the crowds of Omega return with their usual bustling frenzy, I have to bump a few shoulders to squeeze past the exotic asari and turians, so I move quickly and smoothly so that I don't spark another fight.

"But while the pain's still fresh, let's look at your performance in that little fight." Liselle says, breaking the silence again.

"I thought I did decently well." I defend myself. I did! I accounted for three guys after all! My mind helpfully ignores that I _killed_ three more people.

"Decently well!" Liselle giggles lightly, shaking her head. "You hid like champion."

"_Three_ guys!" I insist, like a child.

"It's obvious that you haven't seen combat." Liselle expounds, her face turning serious. "There's a simple solution to that problem. Training, and experience."

"Can I just say that I'd rather not seek out fights? Bad habits, and all that?" I try to dodge.

While I _am_ sadly all too familiar with life-threatening situations, even before this whole space-time nonsense, I'd rather not willingly chase down my death; I fear that Death would win.

We've been walking a little while now, so Omega must be more spread out than it is in game. It's all right, but Liselle is moving like a seasoned city-dweller, and is taking a few shortcuts that skirt closer to the nicer sections of Omega.

Yes, Omega has nice sections. It's one of those things that you need a little experience before you 'get' it, as Omega can only be 'nice' in comparison.

Of course, _finding _the nicer sections is an almost impossible task, what with the utterly bizarre architecture of Omega. It has taken me a while to even remember that Omega's almost maze-like construction was due to its original purpose of mining.

And let's not get into the ridiculous three-dimensional nature of the Omega, what with Liselle clambering up a ladder and jumping gaps between the buildings as if there _wasn't _a deadly drop awaiting the slightest misstep.

"Fine." Liselle permits, before pressing her advantage, as we take a breather after a long, gut-clenching jump. "But you've got to stop being scared in a fight!"

"What?" I managed, a little surprised as I greedily suck in air. "Fear is a natural part of life! I'll fight, I'll try to not let it effect me in combat, but it's ordinary to be scared shitless when somebody's trying to kill you. Fight or flight instinct, you know."

"Granted," Liselle admits, calling back at me nonchalantly as she hurtles over the fissure between two buildings.

"That might _not_have been the best way to put that; but why are you getting so defensive?" Liselle calls over the gap, beckoning me on with a smile and a wave.

Gritting my teeth a little, I take off running, letting out an unconscious grunt of fear as I soar, however briefly

"A man who is fearless is the type of person who won't worry about his own safety." I explain, my thoughts winding back to an argument I had some time back along these same lines. "That can make him an amazing berserker, true, but I'd much rather be motivated by self-preservation than bloodlust!"

"Who says that a fearless person has to be motivated by bloodlust? Honor could be his incentive." Liselle pointed out.

"No offense, Liselle," I chuckle. "But I've only met a few people in the world who even understand the _concept_ of honor, much less follow that concept. Comradeship and _esprit de corps _is great for motivating people, but militaries have churned out psychopaths since they were first created. To be fair to the military, it is most definitely _not _the idea, but people who love to fight will go to the place that they can get the best fights."

"Like the krogan?" Liselle suggests.

"Uh…Kinda." I respond hesitantly, thinking of Wrex. "Though I suppose there might be one or two krogan with an honor code. Every rule has its exceptions, after all."

"Like how there's supposed to be one or two humans that are decent people?" Liselle wisecracks, just before disappearing around the ugly protruding corner of rock.

I wince dramatically as soon as I come back into view of her, dramatically holding a hand to my heart.

"That hurts, darling, it hurts me deep." I return, slipping into a light and jovial Texan accent as I follow Liselle down a ladder, back onto one of Omega's many open concourses.

"I'd rather hurt you now with words than have you die on me later because you were too busy cowering in a corner." Liselle remarks simply, striding through the crowd without waiting for me.

"Enough!" I call loudly, dashing to get back to her side. "I get it, I get it, I'll try to be a badass warrior, but you've got to understand that _some_ of us don't have a century or two of commando experience to rely on!"

"Which is why you need to train!" Liselle rejoins.

A few humans in the crowd give me sympathetic looks, and I swear I heard one talking about 'poor thing, wrapped in her clutches.' Good to know that even in the 22nd century, the old grandmothers talking about she-devils are still around.

Hell, with the asari running around rutting with everything in sight, they're probably having a boom in numbers.

"You'll need some armor as well. I don't care how anachronistic that costume is, a hardsuit is the only thing that can save _your_ hide, what with all the trouble you seem to attract."

I studiously ignore the fact that the gangers attacked us because Liselle happens to have opinions about being felt up.

Or, if I'm honest, I ignore it because I was a little ticked off by this point.

"Ok, why the _fuck_ did Aria let me join, then?" I demand, stopping as I turn directly towards Liselle.

Liselle stops as well, before gesturing resignedly at a scummy side alley. She leans on a metal support beam that might've been left over from when Omega was a simple mining facility.

"I mean you guys critique me so god_dam_ often! Why not just hire a ex-Marine from the Alliance?" I criticize. "For all the flak you, Aria, and Garka give me, you never seem to want to hire somebody more competent."

I must've gone on ranting for another minute, before I wound down. There's a lot of shit here that hasn't made sense, and Aria's been keeping me very busy, leaving me very little time to digest everything I see. As a result, I've got a lot of weird stuff to bitch about.

I think Liselle must've been a tiny bit baffled when I started complaining about how in the _hell _Afterlife hadn't been raided or attacked with infiltrators, or how Kenn had been able to fundamentally change armor penetration with a simple wedge-firing mechanism when armor piercing ammo already existed, or any number of other impossible things I'd considered.

Finally, however, she had enough, and stopped my tirade with the simple act of laying a hand on my shoulder.

"Nick." she interrupted firmly, her tone fair but unyielding. "Aria hired you because she didn't want a stupid idiot, trigger happy grunt, psychopathic killer, or indoctrinated _fuck_."

At the word _indoctrinated_, I look up, startled. An eyebrow rises inquisitively at my strong reaction, but a moment passes and Liselle must've chalked it up to the force in her words.

"The point is, Nick, ex-Alliance troops make shitty employees," Liselle details, a slight tone of exasperation starting to leak into her voice. "The only reliable soldiers to come out of the Alliance military get a job as bouncers for a little while, then end up in either the Blue Suns or the Eclipse. They want to gallivant across the galaxy with nothing but a big gun, a couple comrades who don't care if they live, and the promise of an asari hooker for the survivors."

There's a surprising amount of bitterness in her voice, so I gather that she doesn't approve of mercs.

"And those are the good ones. Besides, out of all the possible jobs an ex-Alliance Marine could get with those expensive implants, why work for a mere _planetary_ organization when you could work for a galactic organization like the Suns?"

"But," I protest quickly, mind racing. "Aria's got connections everywhere, even up to the Council!"

Too late, I realize my mistake. While I can cling to a slight bit of pride that I don't literally clap my hands over my mouth, I do make a hilariously peculiar '_oh crap'_ face. The importance of the information I know cannot be overstated, and now Liselle knows that _I_ know it.

"Well, well, well…" Liselle purrs, viewing me differently, almost slyly. "_Someone _did their homework."

I'm sure _that_ lovely conversation would have continued in a very interesting manner, had we not emerged from our dark tunnel and into a waiting room.

At the other end of the plain room, two batarians in armor and carrying rifles stood watching us warily. Though their guns are not aimed at us, it wouldn't take more than a split-second to bring them up and open fire.

_This_, I think tentatively, _would be one of those times to shut up and listen_.

Liselle exchanged a few words with one of them and flashed her omni-tool, after a few more tense moments the batarians stepped to side and opened up the large blast door.

Nodding to the guards in a sign of respect and compliance, I walked through the door and into a loud, lively marketplace. All sorts of species moved to and fro, but unlike the other parts of Omega I'd seen, everyone here was in much nicer gear.

A couple mercs in their distinctive bright armor stride around confidently, but I don't think that they're running security here, what with the numerous watchful armored batarians making sure the mercs don't cause trouble.

I look towards Liselle, intending to finish off our conversation, but she's already gone, rushing off with a purposeful hurry towards a tastefully dressed batarian.

"Marsh!"

The batarian looks up at her call, and a kindly smile lights up his face.

"Liselle!" the batarian greets, his stereotypical deep batarian voice brimming with… warmth? "Aria's treating you well, I hope?

"Yes, Marsh." Liselle answers happily, enveloping him in a tight hug.

Needless to say, I'm standing a few feet away, confused as hell.

"How's business?" Liselle inquires politely as they break away, the batarian waving off a few people demanding his attention.

_Marsh_, I think, a little dazed.

In the game, he's just another batarian in grimy clothes at some corner shop. I should have known that he would have a nicer place, but this spot is positively swanky for Omega.

I spy a vorcha using a silent cleaning vacuum (or, at least, the futuristic version of one) off to the side, while the metal of Omega has been tastefully painted a lighter shade, with some red highlights along the handrails. If not for the guards spoiling the illusion, this could have been a nice place on Illium or on the Citadel.

With the reception Liselle is getting, I'm guessing that they now each other well, though it's a bit of an easy guess to make, what with all the light chatting. Marsh is making small-talk about how his business is doing, Liselle listening with eagerness.

Casting my eyes around the room, I notice a few krogan guards, some Blood Pack Vorcha, all the usual brute-force muscle types. Oddly enough, one of the vorcha is acting like he is the boss, and even the much larger and more badass appearing krogan are deferring to his movements.

But I don't really have time to ponder that, as Liselle turns back towards me, introducing me to Marsh with a sweeping "-And this is one of Aria's new picks."

"She picked a human?" Marsh questions, his eyes giving me a practiced once-over.

I have a quick hunch that this is going to go on for a little while, so I decide to intervene and take back the initiative.

"Nick." I say firmly, extending my hand.

I don't know how well that human thing translates to the batarians, but Marsh grips my hand without hesitation, giving a hearty shake that speaks well of him.

Call me a little old fashioned, but one of the best first impressions a guy can give is a good handshake.

"Nice to meet you. I'm Marsh, and as you probably know I run Omega's markets."

"The legal ones." I interject lightly, trying to seem smart without offending Marsh.

Sure enough, he chuckles, and remarks to Liselle lightly, "At least he's sharp."

"That he is, Marsh. That he is." Liselle responds in a wry tone, the look in her eyes making it clear that she's keeping my earlier comment firmly in mind.

"So, what do think of my little establishment, Nick?" Marsh asks, gesturing around the fancy 'store.'

I'd looked around before as quick as I could without being seen, but now that I'm invited to do so, I inspect a little more thoroughly, and noticed a few things.

"There're no products." I mutter, rubbing my stubble as I think.

"And here I thought you was smart." Marsh rumbles in disappointment.

He goes to explain, but I hold my hand a little higher, and he waits for me to finish.

"-And Aria's chosen representative comes here, along with merc VIP's, which means that this place is for making deals about shipments, probably food and water, though parts and other supplies are equally likely." I chatter, almost like Mordin as I say quickly what comes to mind.

It's a blatant attempt to show Marsh that I'm smarter than he thinks, but I'm not so sure how it's working.

"But you said 'market_s_,' plural, so this is only for said VIP's, which means that everyone else goes to your other markets for the common stuff like food, parts, the rest. But places like Harrot's Emporium and others still exist, so either you are not effective at this job so competition can turn a profit over you, _or_ that they provide a specialty service." Continuing, I ramble further, my mind going full steam to impress Marsh.

By this point, Marsh has lost his amused look and is scrutinizing me carefully, his poker face firmly in place.

"But you clearly aren't incompetent if all these VIP's want to come to you instead of the black market or other competitors. So the other places have to provide a different service like auto-parts or guns, while you have a monopoly on something. And since everyone is still coming to you rather than shipping it in themselves, it must be something _important_ that they can't live without… So you are the food and water guy for Omega." I finish off, before taking a deep breath.

Marsh is too professional to be stunned by my outburst, but he turns and gives Liselle an inquisitive glance, looking to her to see if this is normal. Unfortunately for him, while Aria is quite used to seeing my rambling thoughts by now, this is Liselle's first, so she is just as confused as he is.

"Intelligent, not just smart." Marsh praises reluctantly, rubbing his chin in a surprisingly human gesture of musing. "But no, I _do _happen to deal in more than just food and water. You were right on one point, though, I've got a monopoly on foodstuffs. Tell you what, kid. If you ever need anything, give me a call. With you, I'm sure it'd be interesting."

_Want _anything?

Oh, the possibilities… so many possibilities… It's tempting to ask for a Colt 1911 so that Kenn could try fixing the thing up, but let's go for something that I know will actually work, not just a fanciful wish.

My first priority is survival, right? It's going to be hard enough to adapt to being in firefights, as I already discovered… so…

"Well…If you could find a few old M-96 Mattocks lying around, I'd be interested in acquiring them." I blurt out after a moment of hesitation.

"Mattocks?" Marsh murmurs, obviously thinking about it. "Those old battle rifles? I think I can a hold of a few of them, but weapons aren't usually my area of expertise. Why would you want those old clunkers?"

"Yeah, why look for an older model rather than something new, Nick?" Liselle adds, laying a hand on my shoulder.

"Uh..." I fumble, a little off-balance form her move.

While I'm more than used to physical contact, I just met Liselle, and it's hard to restrain the instinct to either slip the hand or back up.

"Let's just say I've got a good hunch about Kenn fixing some of them up, okay? I'll tell you the details later." I finish up, giving Liselle a quick look.

It's a bit of a dodgy way to get her to back off in front of Marsh, but I think she'll be fine with it.

"Whatever you can tell Aria, you can tell Marsh." Liselle expresses, a little disapproving at my distrust.

_Hey, lady, I don't trust **anyone**, especially not someone I just met!_

"Oh…kaay?" I waver, before valiantly launching into another lengthy explanation.

"The Mattock is an _old_ battle rifle, true, but we don't exactly have any _new_ battle rifles running around right now. The closest thing that exists is the… Ravager? No, no, the Vindicator, and that is still a three-round burst that wastes some ammo. With a Mattock rigged for thermal clips, it'd still be a semi-automatic weapon, hard-hitting, and would make every shot count. It's more accurate than almost every other assault rifle without being anywhere near as unwieldy or specialized as a sniper rifle. It could work for both longer ranges here in Omega while still being able to slam-fire a lot of rounds when you need them. And with the urban nature of Omega, the Mattock could easily handle most circumstances you'd use a sniper rifle for. Not all, true, but those few ridiculously long shots would need a designated marksman anyway."

"Huh…" Marsh considers, deep in thought. "You know, I used to have a Mattock back when I was running with the Suns. It'd be nice to see some in action again. I'll look into it for you, get those delivered to Aria, so long as I can get a few of them in return."

"Of course," Liselle assures him. "If they work, that is."

My experience with firearms has always been with longer ranged, usually bolt-action weapons, which would be problematic in the closer quarters of Omega.

I'll probably end up requesting a sniper rifle from the armory anyway, but I'll be the equivalent of a raw recruit if they give me an Avenger or a Vindicator and expected me to fight like an N7 operator.

Yet… if I have a semi-automatic battle rifle, like my own AR model back home, I'll not only be acquainted with the particular way of using a battle rifle, if not it's ergonomics, but I'll also be using one of the most powerful rifles in existence.

The fact that I'll also be outfitting Aria's people with a powerful advantage is only another benefit.

It's a done deal; we chat lightly for a few more minutes, then go our separate ways. Marsh goes back to dealing with the important-looking vorcha (oxymoron if there ever was one), and Liselle and I head back towards Afterlife.

On the way out, though, I heard something rather curious. Liselle had leaned in to give Marsh one last hug, and I distinctly overheard Marsh teasing her.

"How does it feel to be in the VIP section?" he asks quietly, just barely audible.

"You know I'm not a VIP, Marsh." Liselle returns, her tone just a little harsher. Huh, I guess she doesn't approve of something here…

"Not yet." Marsh murmurs back, before they untangle.

Liselle joins me by the door, and we head off on the short trek back to Afterlife.

It's more than a little awkward, as I don't quite know what to say.

"So…" I draw out, trying to start another conversation. "What's up with your accent?"

"What do you mean?" Liselle questions, her voice far off and clearly distracted.

"You've got a… fuck, I don't know, like a more rough accent than, well, every other asari I've met." I ramble, as Liselle tunes in and starts actually paying attention.

"You really haven't been around us aliens much before, have you?" Liselle giggles.

"Well, let's see… Yeah, not really." I admit.

"The accent means that it's not being translated by your earpiece." She says, emulating Aria's style of giving clues, but not answers.

"Which means the real question is 'where did you learn English?' " I reply, taking the hint and skipping the next few steps in the conversation.

"Picked it up while working." Liselle answers cryptically.

I glance over at her, and sure enough she's grinning, so the ambiguous nature is intentional. Since I stepped up to the plate, she's tossed me a few wild ones, like when we were with Marsh, but now I've got her number.

"Does that have to do with your… outfit?" I take a wild swing, since a stripper wouldn't have picked up English.

Her background and temperament only leaves information broker or commando, and I highly doubt that she would have left the info-broker life for this.

"Something like that, yes." Her face is still amused, the ghost of a grin lingering on her lips. "But what about you?"

"What's there to say about me? I'm just a kid from a small town." I deflect, trying to keep with policy of not talking about my background.

The less they know, the less they can check, and the less likely they are to figuring out how much of a lie my existence is.

"Oh, can the chatter." She says, clearly amused.

I'm a little confused for a second, but then I realize that, hey, it's _two hundred years later_. Of course there are going to be changes in idioms and sayings! The fact that Liselle's words aren't being translated probably helps with that. So… she must be saying some form of 'cut the crap.'

"You've got to have _some_ kind of a story hidden down there." Liselle says, as we take a shortcut.

Instead of going up a crowded ramp full of people, Liselle tugs me off to the side and begins to climb up a bare metal ladder bolted firmly onto the side of a building.

I follow her obediently, cursing briefly as I bang my hand on a rung that I had not expected to be so low. Looking up to make sure I don't do it again, I get a good glimpse of Liselle's… uh… accentuated bottom.

I try to look away guiltily, but then I smack my knuckles on the bars again. As I swear under my breath again, I can just barely hear a petite giggle from above me.

Goddamn _tease_!

"Well?" the teasing voice comes again, her tone telling me that she knows _exactly_ what she's doing._ Damn it, I'm not a pervert, _I deny hotly. She's doing it on purpose to mess with me.

"Just a small town kid, ma'am." I mutter, aware of how much I sound like Kal'Reegar.

"A small town where, though?" Liselle queries, her voice echoing down the small access tunnel.

"Earth, of course."

"_Really_?" she says, sounding a little surprised. "I'd have thought you were some colony redneck from your voice."

"Not a redneck, darling. Rednecks are farmers. I'm just a simple hillbilly." I insist, the familiar lines bringing back a bit of nostalgia from all the times I gave that explanation back home.

"So, you're from where? The mountains?"

"More like forests. Was raised in one big-ass rainforest." I grunt as I clamber past the last rung and get to my feet.

"I didn't know there were any rainforests left on Earth." Liselle replies slyly as we move out of the old access tunnels and into the newer structures.

Of course, though as this is Omega, 'newer' is a relative term. I would be surprised if the newest building was under a hundred years old.

"Oh, there are a few. Are there any mountains on Thessia?" I rebut, remembering a line from somewhere in Mass Effect 3.

Or was that about Palaven? Eh, whatever. It's unimportant, anyway.

"I'm just saying, I thought Earth was entirely cities." Liselle defends.

"What about you?" I inquire, attempting to turn the conversation away from my non-existent cover story. "You know English from previous encounters, but where's that charming accent come from? It can't _just_ be the fact you're actually speaking English, 'cause Aria has the exact same accent. So… I'm thinking you're from the same place as Aria."

"Is that your brilliant theory?" Liselle asks, smiling, while she lays a hand on my shoulder and directs me subtly towards a shortcut in an alley.

"Furthermore," I continue, adopting a posh British accent. "I postulate that both of you are from some crime-ridden or run-down district, and that your success in due to your burning desire to prove yourself to the world and achieve success."

Liselle give a low laugh, though I thought I detected a note of bitterness.

"Are you _trying_ to make me laugh?"

I shrug.

"Well, when you've got a natural talent, it's a shame not to use it." I drawl, a tinge of my usual sardonic nature in my voice, whilst rolling my shoulders as if to say 'what can you do?'

Surprisingly, Liselle reacts badly to that, shaking her head as her mood darkens.

"To answer your guess," she replies slowly and bitterly, "While Aria and I are both from the same part of Thessia, you couldn't be more wrong. We're not from a bad part of town, we're from the fanciest."

"What?" I say, a little stupefied. I thought I was spot on, but looks like I was dead wrong. What the heck?

"Yeah." Liselle mutters, her manner grim. "All shining spires and extravagant events for the highest administrators and the oldest Matriarchs. It was all so… _suffocating_."

She's disgusted, embroiled in the enraging memories of before, so I don't speak. This is a rare treat I'm getting here, I should listen as best I can lest I miss something that could be crucial later.

"All that 'high society' and 'superiority'… you could lose track of what we are in there, you know? Forget how mortal we truly are, despite our asari arrogance tells us. You're lucky, you know. Humanity, that is. You know how short your time is, so you decide to make the best of it." Liselle rants, her eyes burning with long-held anger.

"That kind of power… it doesn't _learn_, it just breeds_ stupidity_. Generations upon generations of the 'utmost confidence' in asari superiority, and all they did was make our people forget the simpler ways, the more 'brutal' tools of power. Our decadence meant we saw everything as just more court intrigue, to use one of your human idioms. Everyone played their roles so well that they forgot how to be _themselves_. Aria saw it, and she got out. Here on Omega, we can be ourselves. Stripping for enjoyment was for the rich daughters of the wealthy circles; here it's all about survival. Life, at its most beautiful, basic form."

We're both silent for a minute, walking through the desperate and crowded streets of Omega. I'm a pretty contemplative guy, but in the wake of that lecture, I look around Omega a little more. Safety and security are all well and good… but I've been more _alive_ here on Omega than ever before.

Boredom plagued me on Earth, bouncing around classes and workouts like a robot. Come to think of it, the most fun times I had back home were the times when safety and security were either lacking or in danger or disappearing. Call me an adrenaline junky, but the thought of fighting for your survival, pitting yourself against someone entirely, life against life… it's a bit of a rush.

Although... that gives the wrong impression of me. I don't look for fights or enjoy death or violence, it's just... being _here_. Being in this exciting universe, where so many _interesting_ things happen.

I don't _want_ to fight, I want to have fun while maintaining a high quality of lifestyle. Money and success with a job is a 'high' class lifestyle, but is it really fun? Not necessarily.

_Here, _in the land of Shepard, Aria, Mordin, Wrex, and so many crazy awesome individuals... I can't help but get a little hyped up by all the stuff going on around me. I mean, I can glance to the left or right and see a _real, _honest-to-God _alien_. I can chat about guns or plans or explosives or ships and fit right in!

But it's _terrifying_.

In two years and a bit, the Reapers will invade. Omega will be attacked by Cerberus _and _by Reaper husks that can teleport-spam. Most of the galaxy will be killed, harvested, and consumed by immortal mecha-cthulhu's.

And if we're really lucky, it'll happen in that order.

But it's better than wasting away slowly, right? Like Highlander said, and that idiot Kurt quoted, it's better to burn out than to fade away.

Heh. Reminds me of few other good quotes. 'Every great oak tree was once just a couple nuts who decided to stand their ground' for one. If I remember right, that's a Samuel Johnson quote about hangings. Inspirational stuff, you know?

"There's a bit of advice I heard back home." I begin slowly, gazing sympathetically at Liselle in the red glow of neon lighting. "My brother kept telling me it, actually. 'Take life by the horns,' he said. You don't know what's gonna come around the corner, and life might just end sooner than you think. We both wanted to be able to look back on our lives, whether we were in heaven or hell, and be able to say 'Damn, we had a good run.' It… was always his thing, that bravado."

"What happened to him?" Liselle gently investigates.

"Somethin'." I utter bluntly, infusing my voice with some bitterness and regret, hoping to give her the impression that he'd died or was otherwise gone.

Damn… I hadn't thought about my family until now… pangs of longing stab into my chest, and I struggle to keep a straight face for a moment, before realization strikes and I let my feelings slide through my mask.

"Anyway," I resume, "that story was… a little unexpected, if I'm entirely honest."

"It's not exactly unreasonable that many people can't make the connection between the Queen of Omega and the height of refinement." Liselle points out.

"Well, at least now I know where she picked her Machiavellian ability to read people." I muse, rubbing my chin as we get in sight of Afterlife.

The line in front has lengthened, and Grizz is standing next to the usual elcor bouncer, looking through the crowds with his rifle at the ready. As we exit the congested main walkway, he spots us and gives a little head-bob gesture, signaling that he's seen us.

"Nice reference." Liselle says, her mood lifting a little, and she pushes Grizz lightly on the arm as we cut past the line.

Grizz, nodding to me, turns and walks alongside us.

"So, did it go well?" Grizz questions, my earpiece miraculously reproducing the sound of his voice seamlessly, the only glitch being the bad lip-syncing.

It's something I had ignored before now, but after talking without the aide of a translator, it's welcome.

"Well, we had a slight hitch, but all's well than end's well." I say, a small toothless grin on my face.

Grizz nods, his translator presumably changing the idiom over. We stroll through the main entrance, the few people chilling on the couches barely noticing us.

"A slight hitch?" Grizz inquires, his plates twitching into what I've learned to be a turian smirk.

"If you call stupid users trying to smear us a 'hitch'." Liselle says, faintly hesitating before the word 'hitch.'

"With you, I doubt they were any real problem." Grizz says, easily laying an armored arm along Liselle's shoulder.

"Oh, they didn't really pose a threat." Liselle shrugs, before continuing. "But it _did_ show me that Nick here needs some better gear. Period clothing may look stylish to you, Nick, but it isn't quite as effective as a hardsuit. I'll talk to Adin, our armorer, to get you set up. You head on down there, I'll let him know you're coming."

Armor?

You want to give me _armor?_

Well, I'm not exactly going to say no to _that_, am I?

* * *

><p>The armory isn't marked, but one of the batarian guards gives me directions, and ten minutes later I wind up poking my head through the doorway into a vaulted room deep within Omega. As a sign of how deep down we are, the structural supports are fluid and even more alien than normal, and my heart jolts as I realize that we must be in one of the old Prothean mining sections.<p>

The ceiling supports stretch up alongside the walls of the high ceiling. The room is about the size of a school basketball court, with added-on partitions to separate the chamber into a few smaller areas. Armor and guns line the walls, and I see many examples of alien (by which I mean unusual) armor. In fact, I only see a couple pieces of human manufacture, though it takes a few seconds to distinguish them from the asari gear.

"Uh… hello?" I call, a tad uneasy at the sheer size of the room.

A loud _crash _greets me, and I instinctively snap to the direction it came from, my hand dropping to my pistol. About ten yards away, a jumbled pile of technical doodads and armor plates trembles as an arm bursts out of it, three armored fingers grasping as if for air. The attached forearm quakes from beneath the mound of parts, before the rest of the body wriggles out of its tomb.

The figure straightens up, revealing a reddish salarian. Rather than being cliché and dusting himself off, the salarian stomps the ground, looking almost as if he is muttering angrily to himself, before kicking one of the gizmos, punting it into the wall. The flimsy high-tech device bounced off the wall and ricocheting wildly and narrowly zipping right past me.

"Hey, man, watch it!" I yelp, twisting at the hip to avoid the blur of the projectile.

"Whoa! Sorry, didn't know anyone was there!" the salarian exclaims in surprise, scurrying over quickly.

The salarian is wearing some kind of salarian armor, white with a few orange-red stripes across the plates, complete with that weird salarian handle-grip-thing on his curved chest.

"It's fine, I'm alright." I tell him, arching an eyebrow quizzically in a practiced motion.

The salarian shrugs, before starting to apologize again.

"No, really, it's fine." I cut him off, waving a hand casually to get him to calm down. "But… why were you under a pile of crap?"

"One of the wall-mounts has been malfunctioning recently," the salarian chatters, grabbing my hand and tugging me towards the conspicuously bare wall. "See, right there, that nub on the wall? That's the center of the magnetic field that's holding all the parts on the wall and it's been having a bit of a calibration distortion; if I could, I'd get one of my old friends down here to calibrate it, but sadly he's been away for a while now, and then I-"

"Slow down!" I interject with an exasperated tone, as the salarian struggles to stop chattering, his body shaking with the strain of containing his motor mouth. "Deep breaths, man, deep breaths."

"No, no, no!" the salarian breaks, gasping quickly before resuming his hurried babble. "I've got to fix the generator, calibrate the field to the proper strength, and then fit the new guy with armor and weapons, and that's _before_ I move on to the fun stuff! If the new guy even shows up!"

Ok, that's my cue. After he finishes, I give a small wave, grinning nonchalantly.

The salarian looks at me curiously, before taking a breath, presumably preparing for another rant; I cut him off again, pointing at my face cheerfully and a tad obnoxiously.

"_Oh!_" the salarian mumbles as he understands, before literally jumping for joy, clapping his hands as he does.

I… don't quite know how he did that… but it was certainly impressive.

"I _knew _it! Grizz just wouldn't shut up about the new guy being human, but Forvan didn't believe it! I'm Adin, the armorer around here."

Salarians… really aren't done justice in the Mass Effect games, I belatedly realize. In an effort to show how the different stereotypes can be wrong, the game messed up and gave us the implication that salarians are just like normal, human people, rather than hyperactive geniuses like Mordin.

Stereotypes, I speculate with eureka euphoria, have to be created from _something_. While Adin is more social and less… technobabble-y than Mordin, the hyperactive part definitely fits the salarians.

"Uh…" I pause, thinking how I want to phrase this. "So… armor?"

"Right! Have to get you a suit!" Adin says, rubbing the back of his neck a little, almost

"Just as long as it isn't that one." I reply, gesturing offhandedly at the pile of parts and plates.

"No, that's just an assortment of gear for some other suits. Your hardsuit is over here." Adin reassures me, pointing towards a dull metal shipping crate resting off to the side. "We just got it in yesterday, it's just been sitting there."

"Well let's get it open then." I say, as Adin directs his omni-tool towards the crate.

His fingers hit a couple dozen knobs and buttons on the glowing interface, practically flying over the device, before finishing it off with a wave of his hand.

The crate shakes, before the top and sides slide off like a banana peel, revealing the armor mounted underneath. There's a _hiss_ of pressure and a fair bit of condensed steam from its long journey, temporarily obscuring it. When that clears, I look down eagerly, and see…

What?

Is that… Marine armor?

"It's a prototype of the new Alliance armor." Adin explains unnecessarily, as I crouch down on my haunches by the mounted dark blue chest plate. "It's to enter mainline service in a year or so, for use by the Alliance Marines. The regular troops are supposed to still be using the same crappy armor that they've always used, but the Marines get this new beauty."

Silently, I lift the helmet up, inspecting it.

This armor is seen very often in Mass Effect 2 and 3. On the bodies of dead marines, killed easily by practically every character. While it isn't as bad as the shoddy armor that some merc bands use… it's still a long shot from the protection that Shepard's squad enjoys.

"It's got cutting edge kinetic barriers, some of the best composite alloys in the Alliance, and full N Special Forces software. It's compatible with numerous upgrades and enhancements, and its HUD is absolutely out of this world!" Adin prattles, tapping the breastplate as I put the helmet down again.

"But it's still just standard issue gear, right?" I demand, unable to keep the slight bitterness out of my voice.

"Oh no, my friend, this darling is better than that!" Adin disagrees, shaking his head energetically. "This gear might be standard issue in a couple of years, but right now it's some of the best gear made for humans!"

"Please forgive me if I'm not quite fully sure of it's qualifications." I say slowly, the image of dead Marines in pools of blood still firm in my mind.

"Listen, don't worry about that!" Adin says, poking me in the chest. "Besides, take my word for it. It _is _my job, remember?"

"Yeah, I suppose so." I sigh.

"C'mon, let's get this thing fitted!" Adin says, jumping up. I can't help but smile at his enthusiasm.

"Fitted?" I ask, confused.

"The Alliance might be good with just giving standard sizes to its troops, but we're better than that out here on Omega. It's nothing to worry about, just making sure that the armor isn't too tight or too loose, little things that the armor's VI isn't allowed to adjust. After that, we'll get to your weapons!"

_He's like a little kid_, I reflect wryly.

The armor fitting turns out to be a longer task that I had thought, what with Adin needing to first get me in the armor. He was quite naturally more than a little surprised that I didn't know how to put on armor, but he teaches me how to don armor in record time. Putting on the plates went quickly enough, but all those little clasps and small connecting tubes are a lot trickier, as I have to learn how to put those on myself.

Finally, he finishes. As the last step, I duck my head as the helmet goes over, seeming distinctly bucket-like. It's dark, suffocating and claustrophobic for a second, then it brightens up.

The lighting is electric blue, outlines a few details that are blurry at first. A few fuzzy circles pop up as I look to and fro frantically, then everything sharpens.

_'**Calibration Complete**' _flashes up, right in the center of my vision, where I'm looking at Adin's face. I look away, focusing on a weapon on the wall, and the words follow for a split second, then they fade away. Blinking rapidly, I try to look at the other fuzzy things on the HUD, but they dart away elusively.

"Everything feel good now?" Adin asks, stepping back as he puts away his tools.

"There's something on my HUD that I can't see, like in the corner of my eye."

"Hmm. You should be able to see those; the VI's helmet calibrations should have adjusted them to fit your vision. I… don't really know what do. Not a problem I've ever seen before. Unsure of where the problem could originate from."

Wait a minute… my eye surgery!

"I had my eyesight corrected around a week ago, would that throw off the calibration?" I tell him, starting my usual warm up routine in the meantime.

While doing exercises, stretches, and kata in full armor wasn't quite in line with my normal idea of 'fun', I wanted to test exactly what I was capable of while encased in this much gear.

Leg swings reveal how restricted my legs will be, and to my surprise it isn't as much as I thought it would be, though I'm not likely to be doing any head high kicks anytime soon (not that I could do a head high kick anyway).

My arm movement looks completely unimpaired at first, but when I try to raise my arms higher than shoulder level, the damn bulky shoulder guards (spaulders or something) protest. _I'll have to do something about that_, I consider.

A shame, too, I'd rather like the look. Oh well, function before form.

"Yes, actually. The calibrations systems aren't easily tricked but it_ can _be done, and while I'm not a physician, the systems are made for Marines, who all have flawless vision. It probably isn't programmed to deal with less than perfect eyesight. I guess freshly improved eyes are missing some crucial factor or some other tiny detail. We'll have to do this manually."

Out flashes the omni-tool again, and suddenly the icons jump closer, so that I can see what the symbols stand for. What must be my shield bar is in the bottom of my HUD, and is just an outline, while the unrecognizable glyphs are much more clear, though I have no idea what they do.

"Is that better?"

"Yeah, I can actually see this stuff now."

"Cool. You know how to use all that gear, right?"

"Uh… Well, this is my first time using armor."

"What? Really?"

I shrug, and my shoulder pauldron's clatter; Adin starts rubbing his chin, and I internally curse the fact that I can't quite read Salarian emotions yet.

"Well, you'll have to learn on the fly; I don't think we have any other humans who can teach you how to use it."

What.

"I'm the only human here?" I query in disbelief, utterly stunned.

"Pretty sure."

"…Shit." I manage to say, the weight of my problem sinking fully on my shoulders.

If I'm the only human, Aria's not going to have a basis for trusting me, which means I'm not going to be able to convince her to help me out with some necessary things.

"Alright there?" Adin asks sounding a little concerned.

"Yeah, man, I'm fine." I mutter, before tugging off my helmet. Cradling it in my arms, I look down at the narrow dark not-glass. "Just didn't realize I was the only human, I guess."

"Ah, you'll get over it. Hey, I've got something I think will cheer you up."

I look over to see Adin holding up a Vindicator assault rifle, grinning as he presents it to me.

"Look, Adin, don't get me wrong, I'm eager to get guns and shoot things and all that jazz, but I'm fucking exhausted. Can we do this stuff, like, tomorrow?"

"Sorry, forgot, first firefight is always stressful for those not prepared." Adin apologizes quickly, offering out a hand. "If it helps, everyone's first time is the worst."

"…I was in a firefight the day I joined this organization." I point out, a little disturbed that I'm having this conversation.

"_Oh!" _Adin says, eyes widening even further. "Well, those not ready for the stress will have problems adjusting to violence. Could recommend good doctor if you want?"

"What? No! I don't need a shrink, dammit!" I protest, but Adin shoos me out of the armory before I can defend my diminishing ego.

"Aw, shit." I moan, shoving my hands angrily in my pockets as I stomp over to my room.

* * *

><p>A quick shower and stretch unkinks all those tense muscles, and twenty minutes later I propped my feet up and reclined in the somewhat-comfortable chair, idly messing around with my omni-tool. The interface keeps bugging me, and who the hell decided to make the color <em>orange, <em>but some of the most basic underrated features still fascinate me.

Like the doodle app I'd used to sketch a basic hollow-point for Aria. Doodling and sketching was one of my favorite time-wasters, but I had a problem with the numerous mistakes I'd make, and I always stopped to make little corrections, taking up a lot of time. Thusly, I never really got any better at it.

This, though, was easy to learn. A little practice and you began drawing complex shapes and designs like they were stick figures. Another bonus was that instead of five cruddy drawings from different angles, the hologram's very nature makes it three-dimensional.

So this combined drawing would have easily taken three hours, whereas with the miracles of Mass Effect technology, it only took one, and most of that was small details and touchups. Typing a few last commands, I lean back and watch as my idle thoughts take shape before me.

The fruit of this labor was floating above my lap, the outline slowly filling in with the selected shade of dark metal, the running lights dark blue, though a few lines on the lower sections glow bright gold with power. The practicality of this design wasn't the best, mostly because it was just an idea, but I can't help but notice the uncanny similarity to the Normandy, though this ship was easily longer and much more massive.

This doesn't, I realize sadly, mean I'm a tech guy. Sure, if I were to classify myself by the game's terms I'd be an Infiltrator, but this function is the ME-equivalent of a child's doodle. A six year old could have done this, if they were given a reference picture. I'm sketching without one, since the extranet says that the original ship never existed in this reality, but it's still simplistic. A time-waster, as I said before, but when I have so many things to ponder and plot, it's even more stupid.

I should be planning out how to conquer the known universe with a fleet equipped with Prothean tech, but instead I'm doodling.

Typical of me, really.

I suppose I did this because of the pressure, the stress of being depended on in a doomed universe. Heh. Somehow, I think stress relief is going to be very hard to come by. Maybe my absent-minded doodling isn't so bad. A brief return to my glorious childhood memories, when life was carefree, and I wasn't stuck in a ticking time-bomb of a universe.

Moving over to my fancy asari-made bed with omni-tool held before me, the dark specter of the ship follows like a dog, hovering, protectively I imagine, just behind me as I shut off the lights and get some shut eye.

As I drift off, the ghostly phantom ship of my long remembered design dims as my omnitool begins to power down, but before I can fully embrace sleep, the ship gives off a pulse and a sonar ping.

"Huh?" I mumble, rubbing my eyes lightly as my chosen ship changes into the dark screen with silvery words of my preferred background.

"What's this?" I mutter, sitting up as I read the note groggily.

_Nick. Meet me tomorrow for your next task._

"Of _course_, Aria." I gripe tiredly to the empty air. "What is it now, guarding the streets of Omega?"

_You will be on an extended trip, pack your gear, including armor and weapons. Don't worry about customs; they won't make a fuss for you._

"Huh?"

What's this, then? A little expedition?

I… don't remember this. There wasn't any mention of this trip in the background, though I'm kind not surprised. This seems small, just a business trip, but with Aria, you can never tell.

What the hell is she planning?

_You'll be on business on the Citadel for approximately a week. -Aria_

Startled and wide-awake, I lay back and stare up at the hull of my now reappearing ship as my mind races with possibilities.

What does Aria want on the Citadel? Does she have a ship, or just a shuttle? Will I be meeting with any in-game characters?

And when do I get the chance to jump-start the arms-race in preparation for the Reapers? When do I get to help out Javik, or meet the Geth, or hell, even just _see _Earth again?

Screw sleep, I think as I rise from my bunk. I've got material to study, plans to develop, and things to plot.

Who needs sleep? I can sleep when I'm dead.


	4. Chapter 4

A light spread of gunfire, echoing oddly in the dome, as I _run_, running faster than I have ever run before, because I'm not sure if I can outrun the Cerberus gunmen chasing me. My omnitool beeps piercingly, impossibly loud with a pulse reminiscent of an old sonar _ping_, but I ignore it.

_They should be around here,_ I think, but I can't remember who _they_ are.

_The dream is collapsing_, I hear Arthur say, but I ran past him and turn the corner, before gunfire cuts him down. I dive through a crack and roll, utilizing my very limited parkour knowledge to try to evade the gunmen, but it is too late.

A bullet takes my left knee and I crumple to the ground, unable to move. For a moment, there is no pain, and I realize with burst of comprehension that I am in a dream, and that everything is fine.

Then the pain hits, and I cry out as the agony washes over me like a solid wave of concentration torture. My body is on fire, literally and metaphorically, as a Vorcha thug roasts me with a flamethrower.

Through the haze and distortion of the pain and the heat, I can just barely make out a man, sitting calmly in a simplistic yet elegant chair. He casually holds a lit cigarette in his off-hand as his _inhuman_ eyes gaze at me, burning alive before him.

As he takes another drag, another _ping_ sounds; though it is the same sound, I can't help but think that it is somehow more urgent.

But then the landscape changes and I hit the metal of a pre-fabbed structure's floor with a _thud_. Rolling onto my side, I can make out trees and dirt, the signs of a developing colony, but mixed in with the tall outlandish spires of dark metal that could only be alien in origin.

That's… Eden Prime? Vision going in and out as the dream collapses, I see Geth automatons stomp around the area, firing their guns at somebody who I can't see, though I guess if this is Eden Prime then their target must be Shepard. Other Geth operate consoles, some interfacing directly into the computers with hard-links.

Another sonar _ping_ goes off, and some of the Geth look up as slow, distinct footsteps approach with a _tap…tap…tap_, but too late: the image flees from my sight.

The images accelerate as eyes blur while the dream falls apart, and I see Geth on the Presidium, crouched in assault position and clutching rifles to their chests; then the benches and walkways fade away into darkness.

My skin goes cold, the warmth of planetary heat fleeing as I enter the far reaches of deep space. No planets are nearby, no suns or asteroids of nebulas, just the empty _nothingness _of space.

A few stars shine in the pitch black of space, but I can see something far-off, where the lights wink out for a moment then appear again. Suddenly, I see the object more clearly as the running lights activate, and my eyes widen in shock as I see my ship, the meager model of a ship that I had jokingly tossed together because I was bored, rising high above me in a truly majestic manner.

The _Absolution _soars 'over' me, looking exactly as I would have wanted, but didn't have anywhere near the expertise to draw or properly design. Small wings, a main cannon underneath, and a multi-purpose cargo bay, with the two horrendously exposed reactor cores on top.

It may not be the most practical design, but the _Absolution_ is what inspired me to imagine when I was but a young brat and started my journey; this lovingly built Mass Effect version of her blew my mind.

A twinkle of white and silver flashes from the cockpit on top of the gentle swooping arch, and by the time I blink in surprise, the flash is gone.

Then I see the Geth.

Clamped to the ship via what must be magnetized feet, the Geth are _crawling_ all over my precious ship, like robotic alien locust.

I can only barely see them because of the distance, but I shudder, imaging the horrendous scraping and tearing that the _Absolution _must be undergoing if the Geth are on her. Trying to claw their way inside, I speculate, to find the Captain and all the souls that dwell within.

But the Geth bolt off of the ship in frenzied motion, some breaking in half as the _Absolution_ itself begins to dissolve into the dark sky, the stars themselves burning out as I hear one more _ping,_ though this one is fast and hurried, almost as if whoever is sending the _ping_ is scared-

**_BLAAAARE_**

A wave of unearthly pressure and impossible noise roars out, resonating so damn _loud_ that I can practically feel my bones shaking.

_That's…. that's __**Harbinger.**__ Oh-God. Oh my God, I'm dead. I'm so dead-_

* * *

><p>"<em>Aaaaah!"<em>

I rocket upwards, sitting up rapidly.

_What the __**fuck**__ was that?_

Clasping my head as my pounding headache makes itself known, I groan and kick away the sheets. My omnitool is _blaring_ with an alarm and so I smack the off button. Perhaps I hit it a little too hard, because now my wrist hurts from the blow.

Stumbling over to the bathroom, I spit out the usual gunk that sticks in my mouth after sleeping and look at myself in the mirror. I take notice in particular of the red eyes, bags underneath them, all signs from my late-night planning spree.

I plop down wearily in my chair, taking a swig from my old twentieth-first-century water bottle.

_What was that? _I think desperately as I lean my head back against my chair, heart thudding audibly in my ears.

That dream… that was _impossible_. I've had nightmares before, and oddly memorable dreams, but nothing like_ that_.

What does it _mean_?

The Illusive Man and his Cerberus goons in ME2 Assault Armor was pretty damn clear... but does that mean Cerberus is gunning for me? Literally? Or is that a sign of something else? What about those batarian thugs that Harper is using as cover?

Tossing that to side, because I have no idea what any of that means right now.

How about the scene of Eden Prime? That one was a pretty obvious, so it shouldn't be a problem to decipher it.

…Although… the Geth there didn't look like the one you'd see in the first game. Not enough gloss or shiny, much easier to distinguish; and I think one of them was a Prime. I don't remember any Primes involved in that attack…

Then again, I suppose that there's bound to be a lot of differences between real life and a _game_.

I frown.

And where the hell did the _Absolution_ come from? That ship was just a goddamn doodle, a wayward memory from Home that I decided to draw with omnitool, why did _it _appear here?

That dream was… almost like a goddamn vision. Like some kind of weird divination…

But I don't see the future!

And there's no such thing as prophecy!

* * *

><p>"Ah, good to see you here!" Adin greets warmly, waving from a counter full of weapons.<p>

The firing range section of the armory is a little further away from everything else in the base underneath Afterlife, and the distances here went up to five hundred meters away; a luxury, considering how valuable space is in these confined quarters. Aria, though, always gets an exception or two somehow, so this doesn't quite surprise me as much anymore.

"Eh… yeah." I mumble, upturning a bucket and sitting down on it heavily, while the salarian quirks his head in curiosity. "Sorry, I'm a little tired still. Didn't have the best nights sleep."

"Well, I've got something to cheer you up." Adin supports enthusiastically, holding up a gleaming pistol.

"Weapons?" I inquire, a smile peaking out from underneath my grumpy exterior.

Weapons are good. More weapons are _always _good, especially after that nightmare of a dream.

"Is that a Carnifex?"

Adin nods and passes the top of the line pistol over.

I'd looked into the Mass Effect weapons I knew about, of course, and while most of them hadn't come out of development yet, the Carnifex with heatsinks was fresh out off the production lines; literally. It had come out for commercial use only a few days ago in a limited release to certain influential buyers, and I had only heard of that sale because of my newly-permitted access to the lowest levels of Aria's personal databanks and intelligence (there's a long story about how I acquired that normally restricted access, and it involves my deal with Marsh).

"Shiny." I murmur as I inspect the pistol, turning it end over end.

There wasn't even a paintjob on the gun, and Adin had thoughtfully removed the heatsink, so safety checks wouldn't let the gun shoot.

"Mine?"

"Yep. Aria's gift for you." Adin confirms, reaching over to one of the omni-present weapon racks and pulling down some more stuff.

"Aria's got gifts for everyone." I reply idly, aiming the pistol downrange.

Yup, this monstrosity is a two-hander, no doubt about that. Even though the Mass Effect field makes it very light, the recoil is probably cranked up as high as it can be safely, so as to deliver the muzzle velocity that the Carnifex will be soon legendary for.

You'd think that they could create a way to eliminate recoil with all this wonderful Mass Effect technology, but Newtonian physics still ruled in weapons tech, 'equal and opposite reaction', and all that.

The more you cranked up the bullet (for familiarity's sake, I'll use that term) speed, the more recoil you got. The only thing that advanced recoil systems did was allow you to increase the muzzle velocity, increasing your firepower.

"You sure you don't want an assault rifle?"

"Point A, it's not an assault rifle." I argue. "Point B, I'm already carrying a Carnifex. Point C, backup and support is always available; I'll never need to be completely independent. And even if I did suddenly need to be independent, I'm screwed anyway. Point D… actually, I forget point D."

"Alright then, if you're so certain, I won't be able to change your mind. What kind of sniper rifle do you want?" Adin compromised, though he looked a little sad that I wasn't fully kitted out.

"Well, first of all, is there any chance that I could get a set of holographic sights, like Grizz or Preitor Gavorn has? Those things look very useful, no matter what weapon I pick."

"Of course! I helped Gavorn make those rather peculiar sights in the first place, so I'll be able to whip up a set for you easily. But what kind of weapon were you thinking of using?"

I hesitate.

Because of how new the whole heatsink deal is, there are very few guns specifically made for the new style, and most conversions for older heat-venting weapons are insufficient. With how fast things change in this universe, a whole day could mean the deployment of some new weapon system that shredded barriers, be they kinetic or biotic.

The Carnifex, designed for heatsinks, was a prime example.

The top of the line pistols that Shepard used when chasing Saren are still advanced, but this Carnifex has a clear advantage over all of them, because it is made from the ground up to use the rapid firing heatsinks. The engineers and designers would have used higher quality materials that could take the strain of that much rapid firing, while the older heat-dissipation weapons would have been created with slightly lesser materials. Because the weapon had to vent and needed cooldown time, the designers could afford to cut some corners, to reduce the cost of goods sold, and thus sell more.

So a Brand-X pistol rigged to use heatsinks could use them for a while, sure. But the parts would be originally made to vent the waste-heat through venting and dissipation, rather than transmitting that waste-heat onto a removable heatsink.

You could use one, sure, but the risk of catastrophic failure was high; and when a mass effect field blew in a small metal object like a weapon, the fragments were propelled pretty damn fast. Unless you were lucky enough to somehow avoid the shrapnel or smart enough to be wearing high-quality armor, you'd be dead.

Though… it was possible to configure a pre-heatsink weapon to use heatsinks and out perform other advanced weapons, but by that point, you had to pretty much re-design the entire weapon, so there wasn't much point in that… unless you wanted to create a true battle rifle, for instance.

And if you were stupid enough to be still using a heat-venting system instead of a heat-sink system, then I can fire _way_ more rounds than you can. I could spam fire downrange much faster with a heat-sink weapon, whereas I'd have to watch my heat if I was using a heat-vent weapon.

Rule of thumb: whoever has the least amount of bullet holes in his body at the end wins.

"Whatever you recommend, man. I'm good with your opinion, 'cause I'm not too familiar with the rifles we've got right now… though I've gotta be honest, I don't really think I'll be using a rifle much while I'm the Citadel. A pistol should be fine for now, right?"

"But-" Adin starts to protest, before I cut him off.

"Adin, if I need a long rifle, I figure I'm screwed-"

"-Anyway. Like you said before." Adin nods rapidly, still hyper. "Understood, no need to say it again. Repetition is irksome."

"Uh, ok. Well, let me just take a few rounds on the range to get used to this thing."

_BLAM_

_BLAM-BLAM_

_BLAM-BLAM-BLAM_

"_Shiiiiiny." _I murmur, grinning as I eject the heatsink and inspect the gun.

While the in-game Carnifex is painted to some random merc's preference, with a range of weird color choices, such as black handgrips to imitate the old black polymer/matte paint of pistols from my time. I guess Kassa Fabrication (the human company that manufactures the Carnifex) wanted to bring back the feel of the old pre-Mass Effect pistols, but it really falls short. If I remember right, there's also a couple dabs of red-orange paint, as if to warn somebody.

This one was, as I mentioned previously, unpainted, and I wanted to keep it that way. The stark, gunmetal gray of the pistol might have not looked as intimidating to a ganger I wanted to keep in line, but I'll stick with a professional and simple gun, thanks. Seriously, why would anyone bother to paint a gun ludicrous colors? It's a _gun_, not a prop; there is absolutely no need for a garish paintjob. That kind of action is juvenile, like some of the organized crime cartels back Home. Guns with pearls and diamonds inlaid on gold and silver metal, all paid for with drug money and extortion rackets.

I don't need somebody to appreciate my gun's paintjob before I shoot them, that's just silly.

But enough of that, I'm getting distracted again. How is a _paintjob_ even worth that much thought in the first place?

After looking carefully, I find and smack the necessary button, and my flash-made human sized target zips up to me, while Adin trots up to the line with his own selection of weaponry.

"Not _too _bad, Nick." Adin chats, resting a hand on my shoulder as he tries to comfort me.

"Bullshit." I mutter, looking at the horrendous showing I've given.

All six of the shots hit the target twenty meters downrange, but two of them have only barely clipped the sides, while the other four are in a very rough grouping in the upper chest.

Not quite the impressive skills I was hoping to showcase.

"Gimme a rifle," I ask Adin, who's just starting to hit a few commands on his omni-tool.

"I'd rather you work on your ability with that pistol first." Adin replies, as his own target pops up fifty yards downrange.

Since he's occupied, I set down my Carnifex on the bench, then move over to the rack of rifles on the sidewall. After a few moments consideration, I pull away a duller colored rifle that has an embossed 'Volkov', along the barrel.

Returning to the line, I set the rifle down and slowly stumble through the linked application on my omni-tool for the weapons functions. Despite almost pressing the button to detach the barrel, I manage to find the proper button, unclamp the scope and rig up the iron sights after a few minutes of careful poking and prodding.

By this point, Adin has finished with his own rifle, a customized little model I don't recognize, and is looking at me very curiously.

"Why aren't you using the scope?" Adin asks, picking up the discarded scope as his expression turns confused.

"I don't need a scope this close, Adin, and I don't know why you guys seem to love the damn things so much, cause nobody should _need _a scope when something's only sixty or seventy yards away." I answer in a matter-of-fact tone, sitting down on my stool as I rest the bottom of the rifle atop a rest built into the bench.

One more press of a button, and my human-shaped target pops up one hundred yards downrange. Adin backs up, used to the sensible tradition of not bothering anybody while they are on the line.

I exhale gently, settling the stock of my Volkov into my shoulder, before adjusting it back and forth for a couple of seconds. The butt of the stock is a little unyielding, and I'm unpleasantly reminded of how nice the Rifle's (my old good Rifle back Home, that is) stock fit my shoulder. This Volkov is made for people wearing armor, and it's a little uncomfortable, but I can adapt to that.

Now breathing slowly and deeply, the familiar military iron-sights float and wave slightly as I guide the aim over to the target's distant chest.

"This thing's scoped in, right?" I query Adin softly, as the sights start to settle.

"How should I know? I don't know anybody stupid enough to use iron-sights." Adin ripostes.

"Just because they hand you a perfectly good scope on a platter doesn't mean you are forced to use it, Adin." I admonish lightly, sliding my left hand further back while I readjust for my talking jolting the aim. "There's something to be said for knowing how to nail a someone without using fancy tech."

My piece spoken, I shut up and shift the aim back up to the chest from where it had slipped. Talking keeps messing up my aim with jolts and shaking, so I cut it out and focus.

Left hand just past the pistol grip, holding the rifle perfect straight, steady, and upright without any twists, right hand gently a _squeeze_, not a pull, of pressure. Breath out, then in, then a quick half-out, steadying the limit between body shaking with need for air and chest out of proportion from too much air. More squeeze, _not pull_, then-

_CRACK_

"And that, my friends, is how we shoot." I murmur to myself, just barely audible, as I settle the sights back onto the small lump of brightly colored fabricated dummy.

The torso is small at this distance, but not unbearably so, and after so many years of shooting pop cans in the old logging roads, this kind of thing just comes second nature to me.

Not rushed, not shooting under fire, just taking your time for the precise…perfect…_shot_.

_CRACK_

This time, the target's head shudders a little, as the tiny bead of metal zooms through his forehead.

Again and again I fire, always pausing. I'm not stopping so that the pre-heatsink Volkov can vent away the waste-heat, but so that I can aim, each and every time realigning my aim, until after ten more shots I set the rifle back down.

Looking down to the rifle, I make sure the rifle is clear and safe, my hands trembling almost imperceptibly as I struggle to focus on my task.

I exhale as I rise from my seat, the breath sounding far too noisy in the wake of my focused shooting. With delicate hands, I lower the iron-sights, reattach the scope to the Volkov, then secure it with my omni-tool's commands.

"Line clear?" I ask, a little quiet as I scoop up the Volkov and cradle it loosely but firmly.

It may not be my Rifle, but it's still a worthy weapon, so I'll give it the respect it deserves.

"Uh… what?" Adin returns, his confusion more than obvious.

"Is the line clear?" I ask again, deferring to the range-master.

"Yeah. Yeah, it is, of course. Wh-why do you want to know if the line is clear?" Adin questions, by now utterly perplexed as to what this strange human is doing, no doubt.

He looks to meet my gaze, but I look away, unable to meet his eyes.

I don't reply, instead walking down to where the bench ends and a small gate blocks entrance to the actual floor of the range. Adin gestures to the button to retrieve the target, but shakes his head in irritation when I ignore him and is forced to jog down to where I'm standing.

Flipping a switch, I stride through the dusty gate, as a siren blares briefly and a portion of the floor lifts up to block the bench, just in case somebody did decide to step up to the line and take a few shots while I was out on the floor.

"Where're you going?" Adin demands, as I begin to walk down to my target. "That things a hundred meters away, why not just let the range handle it?"

"You're missing the point, Adin." I tell him, shifting the Volkov up to my shoulder as if to fire, although I keep my finger along the side of the rifle rather than over the trigger.

The rifle sways with my stride, so I stop and kneel, again checking how the Volkov fits against my shoulder in this position. Standing back up, I walk the remainder of the hundred meters in silence, rifle in my arms, while Adin jabbers and questions what the hell I think I'm doing.

The walk can't have taken more than twenty seconds or so, but Adin grows visibly agitated as we approach the flash-made target dummy.

The grouping is closer than I expected, so maybe the rife _was _scoped in properly.

From a purely analytical standpoint, I am content with my accuracy.

From an emotional standpoint, I will never be able to use a man-shaped target ever again.

Looking at the tight two-inch diameter grouping on the face of the target, I flinch when my brain superimposes the image of an ochre-clad ganger, his head a ruined wreck of blood and bone.

"We had to walk all the way out here for _this_?" Adin demands, irritation evident. "We could've just hit the damn button and gotten it down to us, why did we walk out here?"

"Well," I muse with false casualness as I examine the target. "You came out of curiosity."

"No, I came because you did." Adin argues.

"You didn't _have_ to follow me out here. You could have waited back at the line while I took a look at this. You're just curious, that's all. Wondering why I came out here." I say absently as I run a finger over the very small hole in the target's upper chest, from my first shot. "But I came out here because I wanted to see the target."

As I run my finger around the bullet holes and inspect the damage, my vivid imagination showing blood and bodily fluids dripping from the suddenly ragged wounds. The dummy is made of ballistic gel, but all I see is a series of bloody holes that combine to form a crater of gore.

A wave of nausea and revulsion sweeps through my stomach and my gorge threatens to rise higher, but I clamp down on it. Instead of a dead man with appearances of innocence, I concentrate on images of the men alive and intact, snarling with hate.

_**They** were attacking, **they** were the aggressors, and I am right in killing them_, I tell myself.

It doesn't help.

My hands still shake as I look at the target.

"_You could have pressed a button and done that anyway!_"

"What, and deprived myself of the chance to annoy you?" I tease quietly, turning to Adin. "I'm kidding, Adin, but the walk out is important. It's an important part of shooting, gives you time to guess just how you messed up, and then to see if you were right or not. Maybe it's important solely because it's a sentimental, emotional kinda thing. That, or maybe I just like walking."

Images flash through my sight, showing my family, my friends, my precious people.

"You are insufferable, you know that?"

Silent, I grin and stand, smacking Adin lightly on the shoulder as we walk back to the bench. Behind us, the target stands alone with one hole in the upper chest, two in the center of the neck, and the rest in the forehead. Exactly where I wanted them.

Sure, I panic and flip out in a firefight, freaking out from all the noise and rush and sheer adrenaline pumping through my veins.

Sure, I hate killing, hate how the aftereffects make my hands shake and my pulse audible in my ears.

But give me a good rifle and some time…

I don't care if I'm not worthy of being on Commander Shepard's ground squad.

I'll take my shot, and that's all I need.

* * *

><p>Not more than an hour later, I'm stepping out of Afterlife in a close formation, Liselle just in front of me and my Carnifex in hand.<p>

My sling-backpack is along my back, forcing the collar of my team pullover up. The backpack is a black sling-style pack with dark gold-ish lines and matches the dark training pullover, which were both given to me a few years back after my team went on tour. I've pushed the sleeves up to my elbows, my crew top (again, from the tour) underneath the black pullover, and I've managed to find a set of ridiculously expensive (hundred and fifty year old fashions are _costly_) brown climbing/hiking pants that are very similar to my old pair back Home.

A quick stop to Adin to attach a magnetic hip holster for my Carnifex (on my _right _side, thank you, I'm not going to reach across my torso like a goddamn idiot) and a custom belt to hold thermal clips and everything is good. Even the diagonal strap of my sling-pack has had bandolier-style holders for thermal clips woven in. Despite the high-tech background and the fact that the 'patches' are in fact advanced synthetic leather, I can't help but feel like I'm kitting out for a western.

Well, when I put it like that, there's only one fiction universe I could be in. Now where are Mal and Jayne when you need them?

All in all, I'm very comfortable with my garb. As always, I'm not quite content or satisfied until I'm wearing stuff that I can sprint a kilometer with, have a quick spar in, or take a beating in and still be fine.

All while looking quite nice, if I do say so myself.

So when we stride out of Afterlife, I feel very normal in my usual gear, like everything is right in the world again. Ironic, that I feel the most normal while I'm stuck in a video-game universe, walking as the only human in a formation of five.

The crowd stays back without the help of any fences or barriers, but they watch us all warily, like hungry dogs just waiting for the opportunity to feast.

"Tell me again why we're advertising the fact that Aria is going to be leaving Omega?" I murmur to Liselle, tightening my grip on my Carnifex slowly.

"Respect is weird. Aria isn't leaving through a secure passage because she wants to send a message." Liselle answers.

"What? Why? You'd think she wouldn't want that."

"If Aria makes it publicly known that she's going away on business, it means that she expects everything to be intact when she returns. It's like a parent telling their kid to behave when they leave the kid with a babysitter." Liselle explains, sounding very nonchalant in comparison to my careful scrutiny of the teeming mass of sentients.

The elcor stand head and shoulder above everyone else, but besides that, the crowd doesn't seem all that different.

Maybe on the first glance, I'll admit, you couldn't find a more diverse group.

I don't even know the names of all the myriad alien races shown here, and my eyes are full of a riot of vibrant color and bizarre emblems beyond anything I'd every seen before; I'm sure that if I could see into other spectrums of light like some of these aliens can, I'd be seeing even more strange designs and wondrous colors.

But beneath all of that, there's something else. Not common ground, that's for sure.

Those who claim that the criminal underbelly is a place for equality and mutual respect are lying through their teeth, the idealist idiots. There's a lot of hate, a lot of prejudice here, and that's not gonna change out of respect.

You don't earn respect here on Omega; you earn _power_. If you have power, you won't have any problems. You could be quarian, vorcha, batarian, or human, and it won't matter, so long as you have the power to make people shut up and listen.

In that sense, Omega is the fairest place in the galaxy. The roses may smell like shit, but at least they're honest, unlike the Citadel.

Case in point; nobody is cheering or applauding when Aria leaves. No one clamors for autographs or squeal for Aria's attention. With some of them, it's respect for Aria herself, but for most of them it's respect for her power.

Which is why I'm clutching my pistol, tensing to use it if I have to use it.

"So…" I say slowly. "If she makes it public that she's leaving, everyone behaves? They don't raid her property or anything?"

"No." Liselle confirms. "Think about it, Nick. Aria's leaving Garka in charge, and he's slightly less forgiving than Aria."

"Forgiving?" I mutter, disbelieving. "Perhaps we're thinking about different batarians."

Liselle laughs. Unlike some women how giggle or titter nervously, Liselle isn't afraid to give out a normal laugh. Come to think of it, neither is Aria.

"Anybody who messes with Afterlife will be dealt with. If Aria is Machiavelli, then Garka is Borgia or Yakovich. He's got his subtlety, but he prefers to just smash everything in his path aside."

"You know your history." I commend, eyes darting from a batarian in combat gear to a vorcha bearing Blood Pack markings in an attempt to brush off the fact that I don't know who Yakovich is. "But Borgia was more clever than others thought. Actually, he was fiendishly clever-"

"It's the comparison that matters, Nick, don't get hung up on the details, okay? You don't need to over think _everything_." Liselle interrupts, giving me an annoyed glance.

"Fine, sorry." I apologize, looking away from the crowd for a moment to meet her eyes and give a remorseful look. "So Garka's gonna crack down on anyone who tries to take advantage of Aria's absence?"

"Oh _yes._" Liselle confirms with a hint of relish at the thought. "Aria leaves him in charge because she knows that when she returns, everyone will be eager to return to the comparatively quiet reign of Aria. The big name merc bands will be careful to not offend, and they'll try to limit their moves around Aria's territory."

The crowd watches as Aria strolls assertively in front of her followers, taking the lead as is her custom. Her hips sways with a light roll, but it is not to seduce, but to remind the crowd of her deadly nature.

She is the baroness, the femme fatale, the dark action lady who rules over this wretched hive with a combination of style and lethality unmatched by anyone in the known universe; and she will never let Omega forget that.

We leave through the same docking bay that Shepard will use in two years, the closest one to Afterlife. The boarding tube is an elegant and graceful design that's probably Asari in origin, and once I cross the threshold I'm surprised by the luxury of the ship. Tasteful but not too flamboyant, the common area branches into a few smaller rooms for passengers, but other hatches are clearly marked with symbols for the engines, life support, shields, and weapons.

I'd already taken a look at the readout of the ship while I was waiting to leave Afterlife, and I've got to say, it's a beauty. Asari ships tend to have smoothed edges and be aesthetically beautiful, but this ship is much more understated. The readout I got didn't give me a name, but there's always the possibility that Aria just hasn't named it.

As far as I understand the average physics and ship statistics here in the future, this baby beauty of a ship is classed as a corvette, but is up-gunned enough to be a frigate. The engines must have been custom designed and commissioned, because I cross referenced them to some of the engine readouts from Aria's database and it doesn't line up with any of them.

But again, for Aria, that's only step one of the customization process. Despite being up-gunned and faster than most other ships, the hull is still baseline corvette and the shields are barely improved.

This thing is a glass cannon, and I'd rather not be inside it when it takes a hit.

All that matters is that it gets the point across. The lines of the ship are martial, like the turian warbirds with stark lines, but incorporating the smooth curves of an asari-made vessel. If a proper warship was an eagle, then this was a hawk.

Aria takes a seat in the well-appointed common area while Grizz moves up to what must be the cockpit. Liselle joins Aria on the couch while I take a rare pleasure and take a seat in a distinctly human chesterfield recliner. The feel of leather creaking beneath me brings up an enjoyable relaxing sensation, as my body sinks into the welcoming recliner.

"_Ah_… that's the stuff." I moan as my aching joints loosen up.

"Enjoying it?" Aria inquires, eyes twinkling as she lounges on the couch, Liselle laying down next to her and stretching out along the fabric like a cat.

"It's awesome." I reply, an honest smile on my face.

The comfort of this chair cannot be overstated. I put my feet up and lay my head back, letting out a protracted sigh of relief and pleasure.

"Humph." grunts the fifth member of our group in dismissal, crossing his arms as he makes sure the airlock is not ajar.

"Something wrong, Anto?" Liselle asks, looking up from her sprawling position on the couch.

"Just laughing at the human, that's all." Anto answers, leaning on the bulkhead and giving me a slight smirk.

"What's so funny?" I protest, putting my feet down and sitting up to look more serious.

"You give a lecture about not underestimating you, and how you're actually a survivor and worthy of all this respect, but you act like a child when you sit down in a chair!" Anto says, his tone amused, but still light.

Unlike Garka, I get the sense that he's just messing with me.

"What, I can't enjoy the simple pleasures? It feels like forever since I've sat in such a comfy chair!" I jab back, my own grin on my face, though Liselle's smile twitches from its spot on her lips.

Internally, I frown; what could she be thinking about to cause her to put on a fake smile?

"Yeah, yeah," drawls Anto, a challenge in his four eyes as he stares me down. "Such a precious little thing, pampered beyond measure."

"Well, if you insist, who am I to disagree?" I shrug, leaning back into the cozy leather recliner and basking in the warmth.

Liselle laughs openly, Aria chuckles under her breath, and even Anto has to give out a quick bark of laughter, before moving over to join us on the comfortable seats.

* * *

><p>It's a little later. Aria retired to her room half an hour ago, and Grizz has joined us, his business with our pilot wrapped up.<p>

We've been talking casually for a little while, in a most curious way. It's like a combination of two familiar scenes, one of college friends chatting and the other of construction workers mocking and heckling each other (which is actually a sign of solidarity, as odd as that sounds).

Grizz and Anto fill out the heckling portion nicely, and I fall into an easy banter with both of them; Liselle is the comfortable friend to chat with. We swap stories and anecdotes, one-upping each other constantly. So far I've told a few of my own construction and school stories, most of which got a few chuckles.

Though reluctant at first, Grizz shared a few anecdotes about his adventures in the turian military, most of which proved that turian soldiers are just like human soldiers; comrades that do their duty perfectly, but the second they get off-duty their minds go straight to the most notable of these tales was the explanation of his Spectre examination.

"Wait, wait, what? You were a Spectre trainee?" I burst out in surprise.

"Yeah. Guess command saw something they liked." Grizz answers smoothly, leaning back into the couch. "But as you obviously see, instead, I'm working for Aria."

"What happened, man? Political B.S.?" I guess, barely noting Liselle's gaze stray towards me as I speak.

"Something like that. Councilor Sparatus is a good guy, but Tevos and Velarn didn't approve of my test results." Grizz drawled in that peculiar turian accent, his words slow and measured. "_Apparently, _'apprehending' a band of batarian pirates by completely destroying their base isn't approved of by the administration."

"What? I thought Spectres got away with stuff like that all the time!" I say, doubting the truth of Grizz's words.

"You see, the pirates had a piece of some Prothean tech that the Council wanted out of their hands, and they only decided to tell me _after_ I'd crashed an asteroid through their base."

Silent and nodding my head in awestruck respect, I have no words. That… sounds like the epitome of cutting the knot.

"Needless to say," Grizz continued, his voice carrying a slight tinge of bemusement and nostalgia. "The Council didn't approve of any part of my plan after 'step four: mag-clamp the ship to the asteroid and hope this works.' _I_ thought it was fine since we've got more Prothean artifacts than the Council knows what to do with."

"But… don't Spectres get away with shit like that all the time?" I repeat, suspicious.

"When given the choice between two turians for one Spectre slot, the Council tends to pick the one with less property damaged on his record." Grizz explains, chuckling in grim humor under his breath.

"What's so funny?" Anto questions, the Goa'uld tones of his batarian voice making me shiver slightly, despite the warm temperature inside.

I'm not sure if I'm shivering in fear at the implication or in fanboy glee at having actually heard a voice like that.

"I mentioned the other turian, the one they_ did _make a Spectre?"

We nod together. Liselle sits up on her couch in interest, tilting her head as she regards Grizz. Anto unfolds his hands and shifts his weight, but his eyes are on Grizz. I lean forward, taking my feet down off the footrest and lean away from the back support so I can focus.

"His name was Saren Arterius."

"Shiii_iii_t." I groan, head _thumping _on the backrest.

Liselle has a quick intake of breath, and Anto lets out a low whistle.

"Well… the Council fucked that one up." Anto states bluntly.

"That's putting it lightly, man." I agree, shaking my head.

Who knew that Grizz had such an interesting life? He's just a background character, giving out a single quest and delivering snarky attitude.

I'm moving out of reliance, I realize. I'm not thinking of these guys as the characters in a game, because they _are not_.

These are _real people_, just as intelligent, freethinking, and stubborn as anybody back home.

And in two years, they are going to die. Every last one of them is going to die, unless Shepard can pull off a perfect score.

Not if I have anything to say about it.

Time to get serious.

Let's break the rules a little, shall we? Different weapons, utilizing Prothean tech to full potential. Call it a tool-assisted run, but I'm not going to just go through the motions. If I resign myself to the hope that Shepard will save us all, I'm gambling with the lives of billions – _trillions –_ of _living, breathing, __**people.**_

My parents always did say gambling was for the innumerate, for those who didn't understand probability or logic.

No.

No more. I'm not going to condemn trillions because they are too stupid to use their brains. Darwinism will kill off everyone in the galaxy.

Asteroids can be used to destroy Relays. Javik has an energy weapon that never needs ammo. There is a Prothean Archive on Mars. An ambush can be set up outside of the Omega-4 Relay. Weapons manufacturers can be bribed, blackmailed, or bought outright. The Citadel can be sabotaged. More fleets can be built. Thanix research can be accelerated. The genophage can be defeated. The Shadow Broker can be replaced. Harbinger can be taunted.

Fuck it, if I have to, I'll start breeding Thresher Maws on every single world in the galaxy, and condition the damn worms to kill Reapers. Or…maybe some kind of orbital defense gravity catapult that fires vacuum-adapted Thresher Maws?

No, that last one's too silly, but it's the thought that counts.

We need ideas; we need to think outside the box.

Every cycle before us fought the Reapers in the traditional, mano a mano way, with guns and ships and men, and every cycle before us fell.

We need to break that pattern, so we need to rig the dice, trap the table, and count the cards.

Let's put our g_odd_amn thinking caps on, shall we?

"Hey, Liselle, can I ask you a question?"

"Sure, Nick, what is it?" Liselle responds from her once-again lounging position.

"You can cast a smaller biotic power on purpose, right? Like a down-sized push or pull or warp?"

"Uh…yeah…but why would I want to do that?" she replies, looking puzzled that I would ever ask this question.

"Human, I don't even want to know what crackpot theory you've devised now." Grizz groans, any trace of a humorous mood gone.

"Hear me out now." I implore them. "If you can cast a smaller power, it's proportionally easier to cast than a more powerful ability, right?"

"No, it's not quite that simple. If we could create the perfect biotic amp, then everything would be perfect in proportion, yes. But our amps are always being improved, so the cost of… uh…_casting_… a powerful biotic move isn't anywhere near proportional. But… why do you want to know something like that? It's useless knowledge." Liselle describes slowly, her hesitation making it clear that she's wondering about my choice of words and that she's never thought about this.

"Alright, that's useful knowledge." I acknowledge, smiling a little.

That bit of info makes this possible, at least. It gives us a chance of having another ace up our sleeve.

"But what about the mechanics of _pulling _something biotically? Bioticly? When you pull someone, does it pull them forward in a perfectly linear motion, just on the x-axis? Or is it less precise?"

"What in the nine batarian hells are you blabbering about, Nick?" Anto demands brusquely, his four eyes studying me with an intensity that surprises me.

"Uh…" Liselle hesitates, looking at me like I'm some kind of madman. "Nick, Anto's got a point. Why would you willingly weaken yourself? Reducing the power of biotics doesn't increase the control or magically make you capable of levitation… I mean, sure, you have more endurance and the drain isn't as bad, but why would _anybody_ weaken themselves? That's just stupid!"

"But _what if _you could train your control to the point where you could pull on a single limb instead of a person? Yank an arm towards you instead of the entire mass?" I ask, my lips speeding up but my voice still staying clear and enunciated with the ease of long practice. "Imagine the possibilities if you could do that!"

"Yeah, you could jolt someone's aim away for a half a second before you get shot." Grizz says, a healthy coating of sarcasm in his voice, exaggerated further by his turian drawl.

"No no no!" I snap, hopping to my feet frantically as I start trying to explain. "If you could practice the control down to a fine enough point with weaker powers, you could yank the gun away, or push a kneecap the wrong way and break a leg! _You could use biotics like you use martial arts!_"

They all pause, eyes flitting back and forth as they consider that concept.

Liselle, with her asari commando experience, looks very intrigued. Anto's quiet and stares straight down at the floor, turbulent emotions flying fast through his features. Grizz is the least affected, and merely leans back and rubs a talon against his chin.

It's silent in the cabin for a long time. Nobody talks, nobody grunts or coughs to break the silence. Everyone is thinking about the possibilities, about how much they could do with properly utilized biotics

"Is it possible?" Grizz finally asks, his bony head flicking over to look at Liselle.

"Theoretically…" she replies carefully, lacing and unlacing her fingers with a nervous twitch.

"But nothing like that has ever been done. Power and size have been the two most important things in the biotic's arsenal since the first time an asari used her powers. Why bother aiming if you can annihilate everything in sight? Nobody ever thought about control or skill with biotics, it was always about who had the most raw power. It's why criminals in asari space fear the Justicars so much. Only a Matriarch can compete against another Matriarch, so when the most powerful Matriarchs come knocking, everybody starts bowing down without a fight, if they're smart."

"But what about what Nick _really_ said? About twisting bones and snapping knees? If that's possible, a weaker biotic could kill a stronger biotic easily." Anto points out, any trace of batarian prejudice completely gone.

Right now, he's just another guy. Batarians are people, just like us, and I'm only realizing that now. I don't know whether to be happy I finally let go of that prejudice, or pissed off that it took me so long.

"Biotics are only dangerous in large scale!" Liselle insists. "The only energy-effective method to kill with biotics is with massive force, asari history proves it! I've seen a small directed push hit someone in the neck before, and that person walked away with a bruise and a little choking, nothing more!"

"Then it wasn't hard enough. Either scale it down and power it up, or just focus a normal _push_ into a smaller area." I jab, taking control of the conversion."The force of the push was spread out along the entire surface of that person's neck, rather than in a quick thrust. If a biotic could cast a push with the diameter of an inch or so while still retaining enough force, they could drill a hole in someone's chest. The only hard part would be the calibration, figuring out the optimal diameter and force so that a biotic could cast a lot of these strikes."

Both Anto and Grizz nod, but Liselle stops and stares straight at me, her head snapping up.

"What?" I ask, a little taken aback at this attitude.

"Grizz, Anto, watch him." Liselle commands, a no-nonsense tone ringing with command.

Grizz nods and Anto walks over to my shoulder, laying a hand on me. It's light for the moment, but Anto looks ready to force me down without any warning.

"Liselle, what in the hell are you doing?" I protest loudly, as she rises from her perch and stalks over to one of the doors.

Pausing at the threshold, she raps twice on the bulkhead and then moves back to the Couch, though now she stands with her hands clasped behind her, as if at attention. Grizz also stands up, retrieving his holstered pistol and keeping it loosely pointed in my direction, his face-plates tightening and almost seeming to grimace.

Liselle doesn't reply, but the bulkhead she knocked on slides open to let in Aria. Dressed in her usual sexy attention-grabbing clothes, Aria scowls as she moves to her couch with a purposeful stride. Her black heels _clack_ when the hit the floor, and are the only sound in the otherwise silent room. She drops down to her spot deftly and spreads her arms along the back of the couch, her gaze locked on me.

_What the fuck is going on right now? _I've got no idea what they're playing at, and it scares the shit out of me. This isn't a rookie initiation or a tactic to mess with my head; _this is _fucking_ serious!_

I'm terrified; I'll admit it. Aria could crush me to a pulp with a twitch of a finger, and I'm sure Grizz and Anto know plenty of ways to prolong the pain.

"Liselle, care to explain why our little annoyance is under guard?" Aria queries, her gaze narrowing as I instinctively try to shrug out of Anto's grip.

Anto merely tightens his grip on my shoulder in response, prompting a quick frown as I suppress the pain.

"He's not who he says he is." Liselle notifies Aria, her formerly warm and friendly voice now serious and professionally cold.

"He didn't say much to begin with." Aria dismisses, looking at Liselle as if to berate her for wasting precious time

"He said he was from a small town near a rainforest on Earth, but there are no rainforests left, and most so-called small towns are in fact full cities, but he's showing classic signs of being uneasy with the crowds of Omega. He's using words and phrases I've never heard before, like 'B.S.', 'inch', and other idioms that I've never heard, despite having lived on Earth for twenty years!" Liselle lists, growing more animated as she ticks off the points on her fingers.

Aria doesn't lose the appearance of lazy indifference, but her eyes sharpen a little.

"So, Nick, why so secretive?" she asks.

"What, a guy can't have his secrets?" I ask rhetorically, earning a harsh squeeze to pressure point by my shoulder in response.

I wince briefly, but the pain helps me focus, reminding me of nerve strikes in the Dojo, back Home. In effect, all Anto has done is remind me of the importance of my assumed task.

"Aria, I was right about the wedge-firing upgrade, right? I found Kenn for you." I explain, trying to make her see my point.

"Endearing your way into an organization is a normal tactic for spies and infiltrators, Nick." Aria lectures sardonically. "And here I thought you weren't completely brainless."

"Aria, for once, _you're_ the one missing the point." I riposte, my determination growing as Anto gradually increases the pain on that nerve.

"I'm technologically incompetent, only nineteen, and clearly unfamiliar with massive city-stations like Omega. So how did _I_ know about the wedge-firing shotgun? That kind of stuff isn't announced to the public for fear of exactly what I pulled off. Or how about Kenn? Did you know, Aria, that Kenn only arrived on Omega a day before _you _recruited him? He worked three hours for that store and was immediately picked up for his talent with guns; a talent which he hadn't even had the chance to demonstrate."

Aria's frown slowly glides upwards, and she waves. Whether the sign is for me to continue speaking or for Anto to release my shoulder I don't know, but as Anto lets me go I go on anyway. Once I build up to a good full-steam rant, it's hard to stop me.

"And what about Cerberus? How in the hell does a nineteen-year-old kid know full details about an organization with that degree of secrecy or competence, aside from all of their Mad Science projects? In short, Aria, I know things. Things I can't possibly know, things that nobody is supposed to know." I'm trying to blow myself up a little here, I'll be honest, but the crucial part is that I'm not lying.

I might be exaggerating and implying, but I'm not lying. Even though Aria knows that I'm using half-truths, she doesn't know what is a half-truth and what is a full fact.

Aria's grin grows a little more catlike.

"Name one thing about me that isn't public knowledge." Aria challenges with a sly tone of voice.

As I go to open my mouth, eager to knock this one out of the park, she interrupts.

"And you can't use anything that Liselle has told you, true or not."

"To start with, I'm insulted that you thought I would have to rely on those tidbits she baited me with." I parry, resting my arms on the chesterfield and letting my own familiar smirk slide onto my bemused face.

Oh Aria, you have no idea how easy you just made this…

"But that's not important, so let's delve into your past, shall we; before the Queen-Bitch of the Terminus phase, or even before the stripper under Patriarch that a few people remember. Let's stray back to the days of the greatest asari commando to roam the stars. With a rep like yours, darlin', it wasn't long before you attracted the attention of the greatest mercenary in the universe, one Urdnot Wrex, when you both took out a contract on some poor, unlucky turian."

I pause here, and notice Grizz raising a solitary eyebrow-plate at that name. Aria's expression hasn't changed, but I'm willing to bet good money she's wondering where I got this intel, not that it was _that _concealed.

"Oh, how you danced across the cosmos, battling back and forth on contracts." I continue, my smirk changing into a shit-eating grin as Aria's grin slowly starts to turn suspicious. "Until in the end, when a volus diplomat decided he didn't like all the blackmail you had on him, and got Wrex to take out a contract on you."

By this point, Anto's hand is off my shoulder and he is looking at Aria in what looks like respect. I guess Wrex's name is even more well-known than I thought. Grizz and Liselle are also taken in, and appear to be paying more attention to the story than to the alleged spy in their midst.

"Of course, Wrex is a sucker for his friends, so not only did he tell you about the contract, he let you pick the location for this bout of skill. You picked some old salarian space station that had been taken over by mercs and slavers, out of the way of any 'innocent' bystanders. Wrex chased you across that damn station for three _god_damn days; and in the end, he cornered you in the med-labs while the station fell apart, life support failing. He almost had you, too; but then the station's core started to go critical. Wrex made it to his ship and got out, but didn't see you leave. Then, despite him watching and seeing no one leave the station, convinced you were dead, he got a little message a while later. Really, Aleena, you think 'better luck next time' was subtle enough for him?"

Despite not having easily identifiable eyebrows, Aria quirks one like a champ and chuckles. The only sound in the room for a minute is Aria chuckling, and then I join her.

"Seriously," I managed to get out before succumbing to more chuckles. "You didn't just hit a goddamn homerun, you knocked that fucker _out of the park!_"

Still chuckling, Aria nods in understanding, while Liselle gestures, frustrated, at my use of another out of place metaphor.

"Oh, how I wish I could have seen his face when he got that message." Aria replies easily, all suspicion gone from her face.

"See, Aria, it's just my _thing_, you know? It's what I do. I just _know_ things."

"Are they all just useless stories, or is there actually some useful knowledge bouncing around in that head of yours?"

"Some are stories, yeah, but is a story _useless? _I mean, sure, I couldn't use that information to get Urdnot Wrex's service, but I could use it to get his attention, and sometimes all you need is somebody's attention. I could track down Aleena and either find some of the jobs you did under that name _or _find out if that is your original name or not."

"My 'original' name?" Aria tests, waving Grizz and Anto to sit back down.

Liselle, shocked, starts to protest, but Aria merely glances up at her and Liselle backs away, her protests silenced instantly.

"Well, let's be honest here, your real name _is_ Aria, not Aleena." I shrug. "Whichever is your given name doesn't matter; everyone knows you as Aria, Queen of Omega and most of the Terminus systems. You… developed as a character, for lack of a better term, while known as Aria. Besides… how many would hear the name Aleena and quiver in their boots?"

"See!" Liselle burst out, unwilling to hold her silence any longer. "He always talks like this! Old metaphors and bizarre phrases! He could be a spy from another organization!"

"Liselle." Aria chides gently, and Liselle quiets down as Aria continues with a trace of her usual scathing sarcasm. "He's odd, yes, but aren't we all a little odd? Besides, would Cerberus or the Shadow Broker _deliberately_ use such an _out of place_ agent? The point of infiltrating an organization is that your agent _isn't _incredibly obvious."

"But what if they _know _that line of reasoning and are exploiting? How do we know that isn't the case?" Liselle demands desperately, her face worried and a little

"Because, Liselle, if they did that then they would be inviting Aria to inspect their agent much closer, and that is a surefire to discover if he _is_ an agent or not. If they deliberately attracted that kind of attention, then Aria would assign Grizz or Anto to interrogate the agent, and under that kind of duress the agent would start to contradict himself. His cover story would start to fall apart, regardless of if it was designed normally or bizarrely." I clarify, feeling a little awkward as everyone's gaze turns back to me.

"So let me just say this then, if it's alright. I can't say exactly how I got on Omega at this time, but I _am_ from Earth, I _am_ from a rainforest, and I _was_ raised in an old-fashioned, traditional way, so I'm _very, very _different from any human you'll ever meet." I say slowly, making sure to meet everyone's eyes.

"Oh, where there's one of you, there's six waiting to pop up." Grizz snarks in his turian drawl.

"Grizz, if you ever meet another human as weird as me, kneecap him and drag him back to me." I warn seriously. "Anybody that fucked-up is a danger to everyone and everything in this universe. Also, is the translator the reason I hear Grizz and Anto speak in metaphors and idioms that I recognize?"

"Probably. Given that Liselle and I would rather speak English, we have to suffer through your peculiar way of talking. We'll have to get that taken care of when we get on the Citadel." Aria remarks off-handedly.

"Wait, get _what_ taken care of?"

* * *

><p>Standing on the 'bridge' of Aria's corvette (now that brings up a few thoughts…), I stare out the transparent view-screens at the enormous space station that's slowly filling up the entire screen as we approach.<p>

It's… _enormous_.

Sense of scale in a video game is hard to come by after so many Death Stars and helicarriers and other sci-fi invention, but in real life?

The Citadel, slowly opening it's prongs to the Serpent Nebula and fully showing it's sheer _size_ looms above us, and I can't help but give an impressed nod. I've seen some architectural wonders from my own time, of course, from the Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque to Petra and Ephesus (and was just from _one_ _trip_), but this was on a whole 'nother level of engineering.

"Makes you wonder, doesn't it?" I murmur to Liselle.

"Wonder what?" she whispers back as our pilot starts talking to the Citadel traffic controllers.

"Wonder who made it."

"Were you born on a garbage freighter? The Protheans made it!"

"No, they didn't. Look at the architecture. Prothean ruins visibly look different. The Relays and the Citadel are much more smooth, fluid looking, while Prothean tech is more stark with straighter lines."

"That could just be evidence of two different building styles!"

"Listen, darling, I'm telling you right now, the Protheans didn't build the Relays or the Citadel; they just found them, like we did."

"Quiet down, please, I'm trying to dock us here." requests our pilot, who shoots us a grumpy glare.

"Sorry…" we apologize together, before shutting up to appreciate the Citadel.

I don't know what Liselle is thinking as we glide closer to the wide opening arms, but my thought are more along the lines of _shit, I was wrong_.

I've always been a doubter about the Citadel, as might be clear by this point. The Council lies, doesn't believe, and try desperately to maintain the status quo. The Citadel fleet is better, but it's still populated by people who believe that the Council is the best government out there.

It _is_, for the moment, but that doesn't mean I'll support it. Just because it's the best government in current existence doesn't mean it's a good one.

But my biggest annoyance about the Citadel was its defenses. Sovereign and the Reapers dominating it I can understand, because of the Reaper's obvious advantages, but Cerberus? I mean, did the Council even _try _to make the Citadel defensible?

However, that was my belief before I'd actually arrived here. Now that I have…

Massive PD-canons ring the insides of the arms, the triple-A barrels (does it still count as triple-A if it's in space?) automatically tracking the closest vehicles, regardless of size. I see six or seven of the batteries track our movement alone, and still more are keeping everything down to hover-taxi's in aim.

I guess that's why the game emphasized the infiltration factor so much, with stuff like that confiscated Cerberus pistol in C-Sec lockup. Cerberus _couldn't _directly assault the Citadel, regardless of defenses, due to the sheer size and amount of men needed, but the defenses kept most of their operations to smaller squad or individual infiltrators for fear of getting destroyed.

But… what about _larger_ emplacements?

Obviously the Citadel has the Fleet to guard it, and the Keepers try to keep everything to the Reaper's specifications, but why not _try_ to put on a few of those main guns from some dreadnoughts? Systems Alliance dreads have kilometer long guns, and the Citadel is longer than that (I'm pretty sure, anyway), so you could theoretically mount a few sci-fi Paris Guns on those arms. Or if the Keepers persist in getting rid of those, why not construct defensive stations to anchor around the Citadel, like the orbital Ion Cannon satellites in the Tiberium setting?

Why _not?_

I mean, I know the Asari and the Salarians have the seniority on the Council, but the Turians are a militant race, dammit, they're not _supposed_ to leave the Citadel so goddamn open!

"You're clear to dock in bay D24 on the Presidium." the C-Sec traffic controller informs us over the comms, his flanging voice notably toned with a little boredom_. He probably doesn't see a lot of interesting stuff in a position like that,_ I consider.

"Thanks. I'll save a spot for you at the bar." our turian pilot responds, sympathizing with his turian compatriot.

"I wish. Regs won't allow it."

I turn away and walk back to the living room, where Aria is pulling on her white over-jacket. For a brief moment, our eyes meet.

I nod in respect and submission, then take my spot behind her and to side. Grizz tramps over to Aria's right hand side, his armor's woodland camo and long rifle contrasting starkly with Aria's outfit. Anto trudges over and takes his spot behind Grizz and to my right, a grim specter with his dark armor and folded up assault rifle.

"Expecting trouble?" I ask him, checking that my Carnifex is both loaded and safed.

"When aren't we?" Anto grunts, putting his own Carnifex on his left side, in the silly cross-reach grip that these people seem to prefer.

"Yeah, I suppose." I agree sadly, pulling on my pullover and grabbing my bag.

Together, we walk through the hissing hatch and tread into the airlock. Squinting a tiny bit at the sudden flash of light, I reach into an accessible side-pocket of my bag and put on a pair of dark brown shades, my pair from back Home.

Aria looks back to me, silhouetted dark against the light of the Citadel.

"Are you ready yet?" she questions. "I wouldn't like to be late to my meeting with Tevos because you had to fix your hair."

I smirk and give Aria a nod.

"Ready when you are, boss."

* * *

><p><strong>Perhaps now, four chapters in, it's time for me to reveal my dastardly plan.<strong>

**You see, Aria's Advisor originally came from my outrage at the Mass Effect fandom. The fandom has become full of Self Inserts of late, but despite knowledge of the future, most fail to act against the future.**

**To be fair, I understand why that is. Many authors fear the Stations of Canon, and they fear being unable to properly show how the universe would behave if they changed things so dramatically. From a writer's perspective, I understand their concerns. It's a lot more work, having to think and consider how galactic politics change with such events.**

**But then I considered the primary purpose of this story. It's a Self Insert, after all. So I sat down, back when I was still considering the first chapter, and asked myself if changes to canon would stop **_**me **_**from doing what is right.**

_**Fuck no**_**.**

**Hackett, Shepard, and Aria will still be themselves, regardless of what precise events happen. I can trust them regardless of what happens.**

**So when things change, how do you know what to do? Without detailed prior knowledge of the future, how on Earth can somebody do something so dangerous?**

**Well, just like in Real Life, you have to use your brain and go with it. Sometimes stuff goes bad, but you still go on. Sure, I might lose my future knowledge advantage if I meddle with too much stuff, but the average person here in the twenty-first century doesn't allow that to stop him from doing what he thinks is right.**

**So like I said earlier, the best way to do that is to use your brain. Use it properly, I mean. Thinking outside the box is the traditional way of putting it, but it's more than that. Like I mentioned in the chapter, I don't believe in gambling, and relying solely on Shepard to beat the Reaper is gambling with the lives of everyone in the entire universe.**

**So what we do is we rig the game. Alter the rules, count the cards, all of which are ways to Cut the Knot and Bypass the Dungeon.**

**Now, you **_**could **_**say my ultimate goal is to teach people to think outside the box, but it's greater than that.**

**What I **_**don't **_**want is for you guys to simply go 'Ooh! Aah! Shiny!' and forget the lesson. I want to teach people to understand the ways and techniques of this kind of thinking, not merely show them examples to copy and paste.**

**With that in mind, I'm doing what any good teacher does, and I'm giving out homework.**

**However... since people get bored with rote and repetition, I'm going to give much more interesting (in my opinion) homework.**

**I want you guys to apply yourselves and think, namely by using outside the box thinking to predict what's going to happen next. For example, before I posted this chapter, you might have asked: "But wait, if Liselle's not using a translator, won't the distinctive accent/terminology of the twenty-first century make Nick stand out? Won't Liselle be a little suspicious?"**

**But if anybody thought that precise line, they didn't say it. They didn't mention it, in review or private message.**

**Now, Kaiya Smith, on the other hand, guessed not only one, but **_**two **_**details (not the Liselle one, though) about future chapters. As I post those chapters, I will be mentioning which bits she predicted. She's applying her mind, and it shows in her reviews.**

**So she gets a shout out for not only guessing general plot points, but for predicting **_**almost**__**exactly**_** what I have planned for the future.**

**Really, it shouldn't be too hard. You have the same intel as I do, you know the character of the major players, and you will soon come to known my personal character well.**

**And I **_**will **_**help you out a little, if you are close. Remember, I want to **_**encourage **_**this kind of behavior, so don't be afraid to send in any thought. Kaiya got two details correct when she reviewed this Chapter, but she's had several very good thoughts about technological pursuits and advantages that I would love to integrate, if not for the fact that I'm only smart enough to understand one or two of the genius ideas she sends my way.**

**And just like Kaiya has here, anyone who correctly guesses/predicts one of my details/plot points/techniques gets a shout out immediately, and another more detailed shout out when I post the part they predicted.**


	5. Chapter 5

**10:37, Presidium Time**

**September 10th, 2183**

**Docking Bay D-24**

I've never been shy about attention, though I've never sought it out. My very attitude and demeanor have always singled me out as a person who simply didn't care about taunts or other's perceptions. However, many claim this, only to be affected nonetheless.

But the attention focused on my group as we approach the customs station is more than I've ever experienced before, with the entire crowd is staring and gazing at Aria, and by extension, us. Grizz and the others are used to this, of course, and brush it off with ease, so I try my best to do the same.

My lips quirk into a practiced miniscule smirk and the rest of my face takes on a expression that I've been told looks slightly playful, though my intention was originally a blank poker face. I have to say, though, that the effect works, so it's become my default 'politics' face.

The poker face lets my eyes flit around from spot to spot, investigating and checking all that interest me. The crowd here parts before Aria out of fear for the Queen of Omega, just as the crowd did when we left Afterlife, but it is different here.

On Omega, the crowd parted out of respect for Aria's power, out of fear for her response, but here on the Citadel, it is much more exaggerated. The throng of people is mostly silent, quietly whispering to each instead of the usual chatter; even the complex machinery seems quiet today, as if even machines grew quiet around Aria.

For an example of the vast difference, the asari in the crowd don't look at Aria with grudging respect for all she's achieved, but terror at the thought that someone so blunt and twisted could exist. I even hear a few of them talking to each other in sickened voices.

"I heard she executed the envoy in cold-blood, no regard at all for civility or respect." one asari murmurs to another, her eyes following Aria with revolted eyes.

I can't help it. I throw my head back and laugh loudly, a sudden bark of noise the otherwise motionless docking bay.

Instantly, the eyes of the crowd shift from Aria to me, and I have a brief pause as I realize that all the attention is on me.

But what the hell, let's enjoy it. Though I don't laugh again, I chuckle a few more times as the mass of people stare at me, smirking just a bit wider than sane people do. Anto gives me a side-glance, but I shake my head.

"I'll tell you later," I dismiss lightly, my smirk widening a bit.

Civility? Really? That asari doesn't know anything, does she? For starters, the 'envoy' Aria killed was a representative from the Blood Pack who was sent to try to intimidate Aria, and was quite obviously killed for his arrogance.

Oh, the humanity! That _poor, innocent_ krogan, clearly he didn't deserve such an ignoble end.

Seriously, how stupid can these damn idiots be?

I mean really, what do they think happens in the 'less civilized' corners of the galaxy?

Just as I ease back into my controlled smirk, the crowd once more silent, we finally reach the customs station, and the crowd is behind us and away, all queued up in the ever-present security lines.

I glance at the blonde customs agent, automatically noting the way she's standing, the slight tilt to her shoulders, the way she looks everyone quickly. She's scanning the crowd for trouble unobtrusively, but checking for anyone looking suspicious, just like a good cop should. But this is… different, somehow.

Aria speaks a few low, quiet words and the C-Sec officer nods and waves her through. Grizz follows, then Liselle, and after Anto is cleared, I take my turn. Stepping up to the scanner, I wave cheerily at the blue-uniformed woman, but the only reaction I get is her eyes narrowing a little.

"Alright, first time on the Citadel?" the human agent asks in a knowing tone, her eyes watching me with professionalism. She's probably seen enough slightly awed expressions to notice mine instantly.

"Yeah. Any hoops I need to jump through?"

"No," replies the agent with a serious tone, taking my words literally. "We had those scanners uninstalled years ago. Now, all you have to do stand on the pad, and it'll automatically detect your identification."

A thought occurs to me, and I grimace right before the scanner gives off a descending series of beeps. Damn, I should have known this was gonna happen.

"What the hell…" the customs officer mutters in confusion, her uninterested expression wiped from her face. "I've never seen this before…"

"Oh." I reply, trying to sound confused, but failing blatantly. The C-Sec officer's head glances back up at me, but she quickly returns to jabbing keys on the holographic interface.

Past the customs checkpoint, Aria looks back at me with a mixed look that contains both annoyance and curiosity at the same time. Considering that she's adopted that look as her default '_what_ did you do?' expression after every time I do something notable, it's pretty clear that I'm going to have to go through another interrogation session.

"Oh…" I repeat, sheepishly scratching my emerging beard as I give Aria a shrug.

"Pallin to Customs, we've got a scanner malfunctioning at D-24. Unable to tell if it's an error or an alert." the agent's severely restrained ponytail dips back and forth as she pulls up a holographic error report.

Aria gives me a Look, then starts walking again, signaling Anto to stick around with a quick hand-sign.

"What'd the punk do _this_ time?" Anto asks quietly as he moves closer. "Nothing dangerous, I take it, or you'd have already gotten him in cuffs."

"Here," the agent (Pallin, was it?) points to a section of the screen. "It says it can't find his identification."

Yup… that's… what I thought would go wrong. Damn it. Stupid dimensional portal.

"But that's very unlikely, seeing as the scanner can access every record down to birth certificates." the agent continues, her eyes sweeping back up to meet mine. Her gaze is sharp, as if to cut me open and reveal the problem.

"Sorry darling, I'm a very private person." I reply easily, smiling and stretching out my hands to show no harm done despite the fact that internally I'm completely freaking out. Instead of smiling in return, the agent's lips twist into a minor frown.

"_Everyone_ has records, kid, nobody is this unknown." the agent retorts, fingers flying across a curiously different omnitool interface, the orange beams wrapping bizarrely around her arm, looking completely different than a normal omni-tool. Maybe it's C-Sec issue?

Anto steps forward a little and lightly taps the agent on the shoulder. As she turns, he gives her a smile that seems… _sad_? Why would he be _sad_ of all things?

"I was." Anto murmurs, his words low and not meant for me, though I hear them anyway.

The agent looks at Anto once more, her controlled expression slowly turning into one that's understanding, and a little… sympathetic, of all things.

"Alright kid, it's fine. Your lack of id is fine for now, but I will need to appoint a basic Citadel identification profile for you."

A… what? Like a basic id? …O-kay?

"First off, name?" she asks, bringing up a small orange holographic form to replace the red error report.

"Nick." I inform her, my unease fading away. I didn't think they'd had a procedure for this possibility, but maybe the Citadel is a little more organized than I gave it credit for. After all, they _do_ deal with most of the known galaxy.

"No last name?" comes the surprising question.

"Uh…" I pause uneasily, considering giving her my family name.

_But what if she uses the name to connect to 'next of kin'?_

She seems to be expecting me to not have one, anyway, so I'll play along for now.

"No…" I answer hesitantly, eyes flicking from side to side. I'm quickly glancing away for some other honest reason, but the agent must think I'm nervous to talk about… whatever it is. Her expression softens further, and suddenly I'm looking at a friend, not an agent.

"That's fine, we expected that."

_What_?

There are no more questions, just an orange beam that scans across my body, making me jolt a little in surprise. It must be reading my physiology or biometrics or something like that, I suppose.

"I'll arrange for your omni-pass to be sent to your friend, he seems to know how to install a person."

"O-kay…" I respond slowly, very confused by this point. What was up with the way people talk nowadays?

"Thanks, officer. I'll handle the rest of this stuff."

"It was not problematic." the agent shrugs. "Get counseling. It helps."

"Yeah." Anto sighs. "It does. Thanks again, this helps explain a lot about this kid."

The agent waves him off, and gives me a pitying nod.

I manage to nod back, but my confusion is only growing. _What the hell just happened?_

Aria, Grizz, and Liselle are already out of sight, so Anto and I walk to the elevator in awkward silence. Anto hits the mark for the Presidium offices, and I lean back against the smooth metal wall.

"Who and where?"

"Huh?" I say in surprise, looking up to see Anto scrutinizing me with a different look than I've ever seen before.

"Who was it, and where was it?" Anto repeats more thoroughly, his voice oddly patient with my manner.

"I… I'm sorry man, but I don't have a clue what you're talking about."

"Look kid, the jigs up. I know Liselle was suspicious of you before, but she couldn't recognize the signs."

"And you… can?" I ask.

"Believe it or not, I endured the same shit as you." Anto says. "You aren't the only one to survive that hell."

Unable to resist, I give out a dark chuckle or two. When I look back up at Anto, he's looking angry.

"Sorry, I don't mean to sound like an asshole, but I _doubt_ you know what I've gone through." I mutter, the pangs of longing for Home coming back very strongly.

"Look, punk, I don't want to know _how_ you got out, so don't think that I'm going to betray whoever helped you. You put on a good show, I'll give you that, but... well, I just want you to know – I want you to see this."

With that, Anto ducks his head a little and beckons me forward, his armor retracting to expose the back of his neck.

The mood sobered by his out of character moment, I move forward and see…_something_ on the grayish-pink flesh of his neck. Frowning, I lean in closer, and make out what looks like a tattoo.

Oh.

_Oh… that's not a tattoo._

A string of numbers in batarian script are branded into the back of his neck, next to a hollowed out pit of matted flesh and scar tissue, where it looks like _something_ was once there. My unease becomes horrified understanding.

Damn…

I had it all wrong before, when I thought Anto was just another batarian asshole that shouts about 'you humans are all racist!'

I didn't know…

"No, you didn't." Anto agrees, meeting my gaze and deliberately nodding slowly, as I belatedly realize I must have said that thought out loud. I didn't think it possible before, but his expression is… soft, almost brotherly.

I'm stunned. I never knew that Anto was a former _slave_.

"It never occurred me…" I murmur slowly, leaning back against the wall of the slow moving elevator. "I mean, I intellectually understood that there was a caste of batarian slaves... but it didn't...click, you know."

"Yeah, kid." Anto sighs, seeming ancient and tired. "It doesn't really. We all go through this shit, and some of us are lucky enough to get out with only a _few_ scars."

It's silent in the elevator after that, but as Anto seems to accept me a little more now, it's only awkward for me.

_Now Anto thinks I'm an escaped slave. _Fuck, _how do I get myself into these situations?_

* * *

><p>By the time we finish talking, we'd entered the Presidium proper, the land of crystal spires and togas.<p>

It was… refreshing, in many ways. In others, it killed me.

I saw a young, twenties-something human laughing with an asari on his lap, just enjoying the beautiful sights of the Commons and basking in the togetherness of the moment. It brought a slight smile to my lips, but then I saw an image of the same human, dark hair and clipped goatee, screaming as he burns, crushed beneath a hover taxi knocked down by Cerberus in two years.

I shake my head and my smile turns sad again, a recurring thing today. It's not a premonition, just my mind working hand in hand with my fucked-up imagination. I could see the same damn thing for any of these people, the multitudes of civilization that traipse across this elegant concourse like nothing will ever be wrong. How could anything go wrong? They're on the Citadel, the most defended place in the Galaxy, no danger at all, and everything is happy-go-lucky as the wheels turn in the background.

Damn. I'm getting pessimistic again. Now I know what Joker feels like, though at least the people of the Citadel have an excuse this early in the timeline.

Anto and I tread silently along the path, the crowd parting before us. Anto, a grim batarian specter of death in his dark armor and carrying an assault rifle, is easily the scariest thing some of these pampered brats have ever seen. We're given a wide berth, despite the thronging crowds, and most of the people glance unsubtly at us, eyes looking from Anto to me in confusion, if not worry.

I'm less of an obvious threat than Anto, but still some of them shy away from me, perhaps because of my willing proximity to the blunt weapon that is Anto, perhaps because of my body language.

Here, in the home of luxury and decadence, I don't have to act like I do on Omega. Here, I look around confident and secure, eyes zipping to and fro beneath my glare-shades, my smirking mask hiding my real emotions. I don't slow my stride or roll my shoulders back like when I'm trying to blend in, but instead walk as I prefer, the barest lean forward, feet slightly outward, and aggressive. I move with sure feet, training making my feet glide, and a few of the civvies that glance at me look away, just as disturbed as when they look at Anto. I don't play the part of a predator, because I am not a predator.

Some of the turians in the crowd seem to get it, and they don't make a fuss or seem annoyed by our presence, merely nodding at the sight of another person on the promenades of the Citadel.

My eyes dart around, taking in the beauty of the Citadel, and I find myself full of remorse at the thought that this sleek construction is nothing but a gilded cage. No matter if the Reapers or the Leviathans made it, it's a work of art.

But if I have to burn a masterpiece to save a way of live, so be it.

That said, I don't see any reason I can't enjoy it while it lasts. The graceful architecture is beautiful, and I even think I see the Krogan Monument off it the distance, _up _the curve of the Presidium.

"Nice, isn't it?" Anto says, gesturing to the planters and walls, the greenery playing with the sterile white of the walls.

"If you like golden lies, sure." I reply idly, humorously noting one of the younger-looking asari recoiling as she overhears my comment. I turn my head to grin at her as we pass, and she moves further away, her face morphing into shock.

"Heh." I chuckle. "Wonder what her problem was?"

"Your hair, punk." Anto answers easily.

"What?" I protest lightheartedly, running a hand through my hair. I'd only had a haircut a week before I came here, so it's still pretty short. "My hair is not _that_ bad."

"It's not the hair on your head, it's the hair on your face." Anto replies, gesturing to the wildman beard I've got going.

"Hey, it's not like it's going to bite." I parry, glancing over at the C-Sec outpost off to our right, closer to the 'wall' of the Presidium. Strangely enough, I swear I saw that same agent from the customs station in there, but then the door closes off, and she disappears from view. Hmm…

"So _you_say. Many of these people haven't seen your human facial hair before, since almost all of your kind are smart enough to shave." Anto rumbles back.

"What, so that they can 'blend in' with all the aliens better? Heh, that won't make me shave."

"It might be better for if you do, or at least try to tame it. It puts some of them off their meals a little to see any facial hair, much less something that looks like it came off an animal."

"Tame it?" I laugh at the idea, imaging trying to get my beard to smooth down and stay close to my skin instead of exploring out. "Hell no. I _like_messing with people's heads, if the beard does it for me, then I've killed two birds with one stone."

With that, we settle back into an easy silence, comfortable with each other's presence, much as I would have been with my older brother, or another close friend.

Strange sights keep revealing themselves to me, and I'll admit that I stare a little at the first quarian I see, though the shades hide my eyes. While I'd hung out with Kenn a little, this quarian was a girl, and is wearing a black and red encounter suit, seeming a little up-armored for hanging out around the Citadel. She's conversing angrily over an extranet link with someone, but it looks like she's forgotten to shut off her external speakers, so most people are steering clear of her, a little wary of walking into someone's conversation.

I can see why most people from my time seem to prefer Tali as a love interest, those encounter suits are definitely _snug._

But then I get a look at the inhumanly large hips and those _weird_ legs, and any thoughts I had of her body turn away from that direction.

"No, I am _not_ coming back to the Flotilla today. Shepard's funeral is tomorrow, and I _need_ to be here for that."

Anto makes no indication he heard out of politeness, but I slow my pace a little, ambling off our straight-line path, more off to the side of the path. Anto doesn't hesitate in altering his course to follow me, and directs me to a bench, carefully close to the conversation, but just far enough away that we aren't suspicious.

Personally, I'd wanted to have a bench slightly farther away, but he's probably got more experience in eavesdropping than I do, hence why I let him sit closer to the quarian.

"Yes, I _know_ that I've been outside of the Fleet for a long time, but this is my last task! Admiral 'Zorah, please, just let me finish this!"

_Tali_?

I turn my fact towards Anto and quirk an eyebrow. Anto replies with a nod, and he leans back, seeming to relax. His fingers twitch slightly as they brush his right gauntlet, and I make sure to make no reaction to the gesture, though my eyes flick up to meet his to confirm that I saw it.

"Admiral, I _will_ be able to convince your daughter to return to the Flotilla. Trust me, this is my job, after all."

So… not Tali. Still, a font of information.

The conversation goes on for another few minutes, until the quarian either hangs up or finally notices that her external speakers are on. She stays for a little while later, though, and Anto suddenly turns to me and asks a few questions about something called smashball.

"Uh, sorry, I don't really know much about smashball." I say, confused. "I'm more of a hockey or rugby guy."

"Hockey, eh?" Anto returns, thoughtful as he turns away from the quarian, making all the obvious signs that he is deep in conversation. "So what's your favorite team?"

"Ah, well, you see, I was raised on the old hockey leagues," I bullshit, finally understanding his goal here. "So while I'll say that I'm an Oilers fan, and I'll root for the Flames occasionally, I'm not even sure if those teams exist anymore. The old, real early twenty-first century seasons were the only ones that I had the chance to see, you know."

"Don't worry man, I understand. All I ever saw before I got out was select games of the batarian smashball glory days, so that all we saw was the batarians crushing everyone."

"Damn, so you don't know if they survived?" I reply, feeling a little dejected.

"I never said that!" Anto chuckles, pointing over to a news-screen that was currently displaying sports results. My eyes shoot over to it, and I give out a satisfied fist-pump when I see that the Oilers are being discussed as the third-best team in the league.

Fuck yes!

"Hell, I think the championship game is supposed to be on in a hour or so."

"What."

"Yeah. The Oilers aren't playing in it though. It's the Vanouver Canucks versus the Seattle Metropolitans, I think."

"_Seattle_ has a hockey team?" I gape. It's about _fucking time _we got a team!

"Yeah, though I don't really know anything about hockey, so I can't say how good they are. 'Suppose the fact they're in the finals says something about that."

"Anto, do you know any good bars around here that will have the game on?" I demand, desperate.

"As a matter of fact, I do." Anto smirks, as we head off.

* * *

><p>Of course, the universe couldn't be nice to me, and so it was with a lot of disappointment that I discovered the Anto was lying, that the Stanley Cup finals were not, in fact, going on. Anto had just been using that as an excuse to go away without looking suspicious, and I didn't realize it.<p>

Damnit, I _really_ wanted to see the Seattle NHL team play.

Anyway, we're headed out to the Council's chambers at the Tower right now, so stuff is finally starting to ramp up a little. After a brief bit of walking (compared to the fiasco of just getting here), we're standing outside the Council's private meeting chambers.

An asari secretary protests at our presence, citing a regulation _by heart _(good dedication, lady, but _why _on Earth would you do that?), but Anto gives no fucks and just walks straight in through the front door, paying no heed to her objections as the green 'open' signal flashes and automatically opens the door for him. I give the secretary a shrug and follow through the open door, letting myself into a room about the size of a large apartment, luxuriously furnished with all manner of couches and cushions.

Inside, I immediately pick out Aria, lounging on a couch that looks suspiciously familiar, with Grizz and Liselle heading towards Anto and myself.

The full Council, all three members, are seated around Aria in their preferred seats, in a curious seating placement that looks likes they don't want to show who actually has the most power. Sparatus is scowling slightly, sitting in a mostly upright chair, while Tevos reclines on a couch that reminds me of some cliché ancient Egyptian, and Valern sits in the most simplistic looking chair. Their eyes stray to Anto and I just entering, but of them only Sparatus actually_looks_ at us, and his eyes linger on me far too long for my comfort.

"Aria's going to be a little while," Grizz informs me, slight disapproval in his tone, presumably for taking so damn long. "Anto will lead you and Liselle back to our rooms, I'll stay and keep Aria protected."

Anto nods and accepts his orders calmly, but a sudden spike of concern wells up in me. I've got some things I want to talk to the Councilors about, I can't leave now.

"I've got something I need to talk to Aria about, first." I say to Grizz, a slight bit of my nervousness spreading into my tone. Luckily for me, he snorts, possibly meaning he's going to chalk it up to nerves about my customs problem.

Hopefully.

Yeah, probably not.

"Talk to her. If she says yes, ask her for directions. Otherwise, catch up." Grizz makes it short and clear, though I think it's a good sign that his words are professional instead of condescending.

I nod in return, and the others leave, though Liselle shoots me a look of deep curiosity.

"Who's this, Aria?" Tevos asks, her voice calling over to me as I trod over to stand near Aria.

"An interesting human." Aria replies, her dangerous eyes tracking me closely. "What do you need, Nick?"

"Oh, I warrant a 'need' instead of a 'want'?" I ask rhetorically, before continuing in a more modest, simple tone. "I have a few things I'd like to discuss with the Councilors, if you don't mind boss. You might want to listen in, actually, they might just be important later."

"The Councilors, or your plans?" Aria asks observantly.

"Nick, is it?" Tevos interrupts, her tone polite but with the tones of an official. She's probably the second most sincere-sounding politician I've ever met, and that's because the most sincere sounding politician I've ever met had just entered politics after a third and fourth tour of duty with the Marines.

"Yes ma'am, Councilor Tevos." I answer respectfully, at least for now. "I've got a bit of a problem that you Councilors could do a thing or two to fix, and I think you'll find it in the best interests of galaxy that you do."

"Aria, I thought you were past hiring simpletons." Sparatus sneers. I suppress a scowl with a bit of trouble, reminding myself that those snubs were deliberately planned to enrage me. "Do you think us mere politicians, boy? That we might roll over and follow your tune if you brought up a little blackmail or a connection to someone with _real_ power, like Aria? Think again, boy, and don't bother your superiors again."

Fuck it. Time to go rant-bitch on this bastard. It seems to be the only way I get anything done anyway.

"Sparatus, save the taunting act." I return, giving him a _look_. "I've got business to discuss, not politics, and you'd be wise to keep your deliberate annoyance trick to the public rooms, not here."

"Oh, and you're one to give me a lecture on the mechanics of politics, are you boy? So wise and full of experience that we should listen you for reasons that amount to '_because_'?"

"No, because of reasons that amount to 'I can re-ignite the Krogan Rebellions _and_ the so-called Geth-War with but a flick of a finger,' asshole." I riposte boldly, stilling the room to silence.

At this, Tevos focuses a sharp look on me, and Valern waves an omni-tool, presumably to raise a communications barrier or some other device like that.

"Now it's your turn, Councilors. Do you think _I_ am so stupid as to rely on sending a signal from within your fortress? Hell no, the signal gets sent if I don't manually abort it." I look around, meeting each of their eyes.

Valern is studying me with a deep intensity that reminds me why STG is one of the more feared intelligence agencies in the galaxy. I can see him pondering just what level of blackmail or subterfuge would take to make me a docile servant. Tevos, on the other hand, is far more comfortable with this political intrigue, presumably from a couple hundred years of dealing with the other Asari Matriarchs and their power struggles. Sparatus, of course, is merely looking irritated, though I'm sure he's probably considering how to prevent those aforementioned wars from happening, and how to curb them quickly if they did spring up again.

"Do I have your attention?" I ask sardonically, my usual smirk sliding smoothly into place.

"Human, I don't know if you are foolhardy, fearless, or just insane, but you can cut out the dramatics. This is hardly the first time someone's come to us with blackmail or a bribe that they thought would sway us to their cause." Sparatus again takes the lead, staring me down.

"Fine, _turian_, then I'll get to the heart of the matter." I scowl back at him as I stride away, over towards the side with the most room.

I don't give the most convincing arguments when I'm standing right next to my boss like a good dog, so I try to make this a pentagon, try to stand on my own, so to speak.

"_Why aren't you guys arming up_? Building more ships, increasing the defenses, you know, generally getting _ready for war?_" I rant, making sure again to look around to each of the Councilor's eyes, though of course I avoid Aria's gaze, mostly because I don't want to be cut off mid-flow, even if she has a point. I'll look a whole lot stupider if I shut up halfway through a rant.

"And _why_ would we need to do that? The Geth are not a threat." Tevos says, her voice infuriatingly calm.

"You have to admit that Sovereign was a Geth creation or you admit that he was a Reaper, and in either scenario you should be starting to build up your forces just in case!"

"Oh, Spirits," Sparatus groans. "Not this Reaper business again."

"Sir, we _just_ got Councilor Anderson to stop bugging us about the Reapers, we don't need it brought up again!" Valern pleads, genuinely, or at least it seems. Subconsciously, I rack the Salarian Councilor one more notch up in my book; that was a damn good performance.

"What else can make Husks? What else could convince a Spectre to go so crazy that he tried to exterminate the entire galaxy?" I demand, noting Aria shaking her head out of the corner of my eye.

"Recovered Prothean tech, some new invention of the Geth, a sole mad scientist's invention, and many, many other things." Sparatus snarks, in a tone much like what Tony Stark used in the movies.

"You are young, human, so I'll forgive you _this time_." Tevos continues. "Do you think this is the first time we've had a Spectre go rogue? The first time a threat of galactic proportions has threatened this Council? The only reason you've heard of the Rachni and the Krogan is because the rest of them were smart enough to understand the concept of _subtlety_."

"So you've come to the conclusion that we should just _ignore_ the problem? _How_ are you people still _alive_?" I question angrily.

"Because unlike most of the galaxy, _we_ use our _brains_." Sparatus sneers. "You humans might want to _try it _sometime."

"You-" I start, enraged, but Valern cuts me off.

"The Geth have not given any indication that they are going to invade us, and we are not eager to give the Geth any reason to invade. They are content to remain beyond the Veil and observe us, and we on the Council encourage them to remain out there by our ban of Artificial Intelligences." Valern explains, his voice calm and level, but still a little tinged with the fast cadence of the Salarians. "By our studies, we've come to the conclusion that the Geth that attacked Eden Prime and followed Saren are, in fact, a renegade faction, based on the fact that we are not being swarmed by near-infinite Geth ships."

"Right, because only an idiot pisses off a Von Neumann machine." I agree, Valern slowly starting to make me come around to his point of view.

"And yet that is exactly what you are proposing we do." Tevos says, her infuriatingly polite voice breaking my chain of thought. "We called the attacks the Geth War because during a war the populace puts their trust and faith in us, but we had no intention of provoking the true body of the Geth because we have no reason to desire a war with a machine race. We are content to leave them outside of the galaxy, beyond the Veil, and they are content to stay there."

"But you're forgetting the _Reapers_." I snap, desperate to regain control of the conversation. "Whatever you _think _Sovereign was, you have to admit the possibility that _he was a Reaper._"

"Yes, we admit the possibility." Sparatus says, though his voice is still arrogant and annoying. "But we are not going to antagonize the menace we know because of the _chance_ that there is another AI menace coming to destroy us."

"Have you even _tried_ to contact the Geth?" I ask furiously, this whole conversation not going anywhere near what I had planned.

"Yes. We sent numerous messenger ships after the Geth Rebellion broke out, and when none of them returned we did not send any more. Every decade or so, you get one or two ships that try to chance it, and none of _them_ return either. After three hundred years of this, we've given up hope." Valern informs me, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"You are not unique, boy." Sparatus scorns. "You are just another of the misguided fools that we have seen a thousand of. The only difference is that you got into our private chambers, _nothing more_."

_You wish, bastard, _I think to myself wrathfully._ I'm going to drag your asses to the truth whether you like it or not. Time to pull out the big guns._

Against my inner turmoil, I smooth my face into my smirking poker face, composing my features to counter the taunting of Sparatus.

"That's not the only difference, Councilor." I drawl, deliberately slowing my fast-paced speech down to a more casual, more dangerous level. At least, I hope.

"Oh, I'm sorry, you're also more arrogant than most of them." Sparatus returns dismissively.

"Oh, I'm sorry, if you _want_ me to go out and get the Krogan all pissed off at you again, then go ahead, lock me up for the rest of my life, see how well that treats the galaxy."

"We can handle the Krogan, boy, even if they cause a little damage before we curb them again." Sparatus parries.

"Not if I also cause everyone to distrust the Council, not if I break up your unity." I shoot back, enjoying the brief silence as everyone focuses on me once again.

"The Council has been intact since the dawn of interstellar travel, you think _you_ can do that the Rachni and the Krogan couldn't?" Tevos chuckles, easily dismissing my claims.

"Well… yeah." I answer bluntly, smirking. "All I have to do is mention that pretty little Asari superpower guarantee that's locked away on-"

But I don't get to finish as Tevos shoots to her feet, face enraged, charging up her biotics fasting than anyone I've ever seen. Before I can get the word Thessia out, Tevos _gestures_, and the next thing I know I've been picked up by a biotic _push_.

My thoughts are a little more disorganized than that logical assessment, of course, and all I think is '_ohshit-ohshit-ohSHI-'_

And then I smash into the back wall, knocking me out almost instantly.

* * *

><p>Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu uuuuuuck.<p>

Ow.

"Oh…" I groan, slowly returning to the land of consciousness with the pang of a headache. My head is pounding, like I'd gone seven rounds with David again, but that impression is ruined when I get a stab of pain and stiffness in my shoulder blades.

How the fuck did I get my upper back smashed up? No one I know can throw a hook kick that high, and if they dropped me to the ground to get access to my back, I would have a lot more injuries than just my back…

Slowly, carefully, I prize upon my eyelids, trying to avoid the glare but failing. "Anybody get the number on that bus?" I moan sardonically.

"Well, if you want to go with that story, it saves me the trouble."

…the fuck?

Sluggishly, I sit up, futilely grasping for a handhold on the smooth artificial walls. The lines and waves before my eyes temporarily increase in number and exuberance, but quickly fade, and I manage to look over at the blue woman sitting in a chair beside me.

"Blue?" I mumble, my headache clearing, but not quite fast enough for me to regain my wits. "We're not playing Dux' in interhouse rugby for another hour, Mr. P, I swear."

"Oh, cute, he's rambling." the smooth Asari voice cuts through my haze, and in a flash of sobriety, I remember where and when I am.

"Or I could be messing with you." I reply quickly, though the glibness of the comment is ruined by my raspy tone. Looking to the side, I lean over to the convenient sink-toilet and spit out the gunk in my mouth.

I get a better look at the Asari, and my eyes widen a little.

"Vasir?" I question automatically, before wincing and shutting up.

"My, my," says Tela Vasir knowingly, a smirk on her face. "I've got a fanboy."

"It _would_ be you, wouldn't it?" I groan, sighing.

Wait a minute… Holy fuck, this is the _best_ opportunity I could have gotten.

I can't help it, I start smirking again, my familiar grin lighting up my face like a Christmas tree. Vasir, of course, notices instantly.

"Don't even think about it, punk." she warns teasingly, though I know her tone is just another mask.

"Madame Vasir," I say warmly, standing up and giving her a little bow. "So pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Nick, a purveyor of arcane knowledge and forbidden secrets."

My grin morphs into my usual smirk, and I chuckle a little at Vasir's annoyed glance; clearly, she's seen this act before. My smirk grows as my amusement does; she might have had other people try to bribe or blackmail her, but she's never met _me_. Briefly, I ponder my own arrogance, but with a practiced motion I disregard that thought as I continue to speak, turning my tone into a little lower, just barely more secretive.

"Care to make a deal?"

"I'm told you tried this same thing with the Council; clearly you haven't learned anything." Vasir dismisses.

"No," I counter, sitting back down on my bed-slab and leaning back against the smooth metal wall, pulling my feet up a little so that they can dangle. "The situation has changed."

"You might have had something on the Asari Councilor, but you don't have anything on me, so it's pointless." Vasir scorns.

"Are you so sure?"

"Yes."

And before I can say any more, she darts quickly towards me, her speed quite impressive for someone who had appeared to be flat-footed and was wearing heavy armor. She's fast; certainly she knows that she's faster than almost everyone else. But I don't have to be faster than her, I just have to understand how fast she is. Luckily for me, I've had more than a fair bit of training with a certain black belt within my dojo that just _happened_ to hold three Junior Olympics medals in various martial arts categories. It hasn't made me particularly fast or otherwise badass, but it _has_ helped my reaction times for dealing with people with that much raw speed.

Paranoia might as well be my middle name for how much it defines me. My eyes hadn't only noticed the obvious – asari, armored – when I'd looked at her the first time, they'd also observed the other, hidden stuff. The way she stood, the way she balanced her weight to look off-balance, to look flat-footed. Had she known I was a martial artist, I suspect she wouldn't have made it so easy to notice, and for that, I'm insulted. She though I was some silly young'un who could be fooled by such an obvious trick.

So when she charges forward (pure muscle; no Biotic Charge, luckily), I'm ready. Having made sure my back was against the wall a few moments before, I shift my weight, my butt sliding and my feet snapping up into twinned front-kicks. Naturally, I aim for the head, because she's wearing armor.

I'd boast about timing the kicks perfectly, but I try not to lie if I can help it, so I'll be honest and tell you that my feet shot up automatically, as fast as they could. While that might have only given her a split-second to react, she's a Spectre for a reason, and she bats my legs aside with the _smack_ of flesh on armor.

I barely have a second for the pain to make itself known before she grabs me, eyes black, and says the words I never wanted to hear.

"Embrace eternity."

* * *

><p>Tela Vasir, veteran Council Spectre, did not like this.<p>

Something had spooked Councilor Tevos, and she was told to deal with the problem. Not a regular occurrence, but as the humans say, there's a sucker born every day.

She was, however, surprised to find out that the problem was a human. Specifically, a young human, though he was indicated an adult by his full beard.

It _did_ bother her that Tevos didn't tell her what the Human was in trouble for. Whatever it was, it rattled her pretty damn hard, and the fact that Tevos didn't tell her meant that the information was something Vasir didn't know, or wasn't supposed to know. As a Council Spectre with connections to the Shadow Broker and a hundred years of experience, this thought worried her deep down.

The Human did as many do in that situation, and bluffed like a fool. She snorted internally as the boy fell back, instinctively trying to get away. He made a decent attempt at defense, but the experience of five hundred years combined with her slightly less-than-legal cybernetics to easily deflect the kick, made clumsy by haste and awkward positioning.

"Embrace eternity." She recited, as was the traditional custom.

_Does she _have_ to say the same damn thing that everyone else says? Can't they have a different saying, or just no saying at all?_

Oh dear Goddess (_Athame, eh? Curious choice in belief, especially considering the circumstances here..._) he still has rational thought, so he's still got enough willpower to resist, Vasir thought to herself with a moan of annoyance. Well, Vasir grumbled, preparing for a long haul, this is going to take a while.

And what the hell was that quiet whisper she just heard, talking about Athame?

The art of mind-melding was a lot more technical than mere voodoo, but Vasir always thought that the simple way of saying things was the best (_'Old words are best, short words are better, and old short words are the best'_), so it was easier to describe the process as akin to joining together two pieces of gelatin. When you were trying to force your way inside a sentient's mind without them being relaxed, it was more akin to smashing a hammer against the gelatin, and praying to the Goddess (_Again, lady, with your worship of your Creator..._) that you could pick up enough pieces to understand the intelligence, because it would shatter the person's psyche in most cases.

_Shatter my psyche? Damn, lady, you don't mess around. Good luck _finding_ it first, though._

Shut up, Vasir thought-ordered. You have no say in this, you cannot stop me from accessing what I need to know.

_Darling, who said I wanted to _stop_ you?_

An image assaults her mind, a picture of her in her public Spectre armor, silhouetted on... Illium? Something was weird about the image's quality, like it had been recorded by a bad camera. What was worse... she had her omni-tool out, and she recognized the unique signature on the message of her Omni-tool.

How did you find this?

_Find, lady? I didn't find it anywhere; I saw it with my own two eyes. Well, with two eyes._

Trying to play an intelligence broker, boy? Don't bother, the Spectres can run rings around you.

_And the Shadow Broker can somehow run rings around them, eh? It's been bugging you Spectres how the Shadow Broker keeps getting the upper hand on you, but then again, you would know why, now wouldn't you lady?_

Then, impossibly, an image of her attacking a human... was that Shepard, the first Human Spectre? But... she'd never met Shepard.

_That's right, darling, but don't think too hard about it, you might get a headache, and I don't want to find out if headaches can be transmitted over the meld._

She forced down the boy's mind with a flex of willpower and experience in the mind-meld. Weirdly, he seemed to be adapting fast to the meld's peculiarities

_It's another game to play, albeit on a larger scale, _'darling'.

I'll give you credit, not many know how to create images to share in the meld.

_Create? Oh, poor girl, you're _assuming_. That can only lead to one very bad ending, dear, try to use that brain of yours, eh?_

Shut. Up.

With a snarl and a surge of her powers, her mastery of the meld, she silences the boy, crushing his will beneath a supremely powerful will.

But the next thing to be assimilate by her mind is directed by him, nonetheless. Frustrating, there are very few that can wriggle up any power of their own after she exerted her will.

This piece of information is a vid.

Mutely, Vasir watches, numb, as she is revealed as a Shadow Broker agent to Shepard and her Asari friend (T_'soni, T'soni, T'soni..._), then a jump and the memory settles on Shepard going on to board the Broker's ship, on Hagalaz, complete with a perfect depiction of the ship, and then...

That's not the Broker, human, she chuckles, the illusion broken. The Broker is an Asari, just like me. I know that you're lying. Good try, punk, but you're competing against a master, your deception would never have beaten me.

A hush, barely audible, plays through her mind, and she pauses, temporarily lifting up the pressure on his battered mind. Immediately, the boy resumes his attempts at trickery

_Deception, lady? And how do you know that the Yahg bastard hasn't replaced the Broker? Does _this_ report from the Broker ring a bell?_

A string of text, from one of the Broker's messages, pops up, her mind comprehending the text instantaneously.

To: All

From: Shadow Broker

Remove Operative Kechlu immediately. He is too dangerous to leave alive. Engage only with numerical superiority. Otherwise, change all access codes and observe only. Provide no information. Kechlu must not be allowed any further access to -

_Or how about this one?_

To: All

From: Shadow Broker

Operative Kechlu is no longer a problem. Discontinue code changes and resume normal activity. I want a status report on all operations by the end of the next solar day. Shadow Broker out.

Stillness, as Vasir stops her shredding of the boy's mind, though she has barely begun. Those reports had given her pause when she received them, but she hadn't thought anything special of them at the time, because she was dealing with a salarian terrorist cell at that particular moment.

_I mean, did this horrible ruse _really_ trick you, oh great Spectre? Those messages pretty much spell out the whole damn fiasco, from 'numerical superiority' explaining Yahg, to the Broker demanding a progress report from _all_ of his operations. He'd contact them on a case-by-case basis, to avoid compromising operations or revealing all of his agents to a mole. Notice how the Yahg didn't even identify via a code? I though that was the point of ordering code changes, so that you can smoke out an imposter or a traitor? The Yahg pretty much _announced_ his ascension, lady._

Furious, Vasir stomped his voice into the dust and began frantically rifling through his memories, peeling back layer upon layer of frantic attempts at covering up, showing her numerous scenes on Omega.

She saw how he gave Aria the information she wants, how he helped acquire a most curious weapon modification, how he handled negotiations.

This was not what she wanted.

What are you hiding, boy?

In response, she got an image of a muddy teenaged human clad in some bizarre sports uniform, sneering and giving a rude gesture to her human boy as he lay on the filthy ground, chest compressed from a rough hit at some idiotic human game – rugby. It was the boy's insult to her, by cleverly utilizing one of his memories instead of thought-speak.

Where is your blackmail, boy? Don't try to hide, you will only prolong the inevitable!

_**WHY DO YOU FIGHT, SHEPARD? YOU ONLY PROLONG THE INEVITABLE.**_

Vasir pauses again, unused to such oddities. Why did this boy have such a bizarre thing recorded in his mind? And what even _was _that thing? The boy's mind went berserk at the accidental slip, frantically trying to push her away.

What are you hiding, boy?

The boy didn't respond, trying desperately to shift her attention over to some dealing of Aria's, but she briskly pushed aside his feeble attempt and followed the memory to it's source -

_**YOU ARE NOT SAREN.**_

A red hologram, the design of a ship; worse, one she recognized.

That's the Geth Dreadnought that attacked the Citadel a few months ago… but how did this boy talk to it?

_Because the Reapers can't stop themselves from boasting. After genocide, it's their favorite thing to do - Damnit! No - no - it's not important, really, it's nothing!_

The Geth Dreadnought was a… Reaper? That's what Shepard told us, but the Council denied it.

_Yes, lady, because the Council never lies about anything, _the boy seemed unable to resist commenting.

Though it was impossible in the lightning fast though-talk, she can still hear the sarcasm on the boy's tone.

_It's easier for the populace to swallow a Geth dreadnought than an ancient machine bent on continuing its cycle of extermination, and hell, I'd support the Council's actions if not for the fact that Sovereign, the one that attacked the Citadel, _wasn't_ the only Reaper. That other one you heard, talking to Shepard? That was Harbinger, the leader of the Reapers, if they have such a thing. He talks more than the rest of the Reapers, anyway, so I'm going to call it the leader._

_And by 'rest of the Reapers', I mean the couple hundred thousand of the bastards, mostly the same size as Sovereign, which are lingering out in dark space, set to invade this galaxy in a year or so, if we're lucky._

_Didn't you ever wonder why the Protheans vanished? Did nobody in the _entire_ FUCKING galaxy wonder how the 'great Protheans, inventors of Relays,' mysteriously disappeared fifty thousand years ago?_

_Do you think a plague or a war would wipe all sentient life out in our current time, with the Citadel; because that's what the fools say killed off the Protheans. My internal bullshit detector says 'fuck no, they didn't die to some disease.'_

So… you wanted to warn them about this… Vasir contemplates slowly, her concentration broken and her original purpose laid to the side. If this is true…

_No_.

No? But… this is possibly the most important thing in the whole damn universe!

_Shepard warned them, and look how well that worked out for her. Her credibility gone, despite taking out Saren and saving the Council's collective asses, until she gets killed… by an unknown vessel, her ship detected while still in it's supposedly perfect stealth, and annihilated before it could fire off a single shot. Even if that doesn't say super-advanced invading hostile group, _I'd_ be worried anyway._

So what, you just wanted to try to blackmail the Council, just to see if you _could?_

_Well… yeah._

_...Kinda..._

_...It's tricky. I wanted to get their attention, try one more time to get them to notice the problem, then after that, I'd attack the problem from a different angle._

Wait, how do you even know about this Reaper thing in the first place? You weren't on the Normandy SR-1, you aren't Alliance brass, and you didn't even join Aria until _after _this happened, so how did you find out about this?

_Uh..._

A quick flash of mental agility by the human, trying to access some memory, but Vasir clamps down on it instantly, paralyzing the boy once more, preventing him from using thought-speak or accessing any memories to distract her.

She moves to absorb the memory he was about to access, then pauses.

Clamping down once more on his brain, she makes _sure_ he is locked down nice and tight, then adds a mental logic puzzle lock on top of it. If he manages to wiggle out of that hold, he'd have to solve the problem first. Then, on a whim, she added a lock fashioned out of a higher tier pure math problem.

Good luck figuring that one out, she can't help but say to the boy's bound and gagged mind, not that he could respond in any possible way. If he could, she was sure he'd be swearing like a Justicar's victim.

Now with the boy securely out of the way, she isolates the memory he was trying to frantically access, but stops before bringing it into her own mind to 'absorb' it.

This was, after all, the memory that the _boy_ had been trying to access, and it was in all likelihood a mental trap or a flare. The boy didn't seem to have gotten any mental training from an Asari skilled in the meld, but that in itself could mean he got training from one of the best. Another possibility was that he instinctively reached for a memory he thought would distract her, even without training.

Unfortunately, she could not afford to leave any memory out, in case the memory held some key context or encounter that would give the rest of the memories a second or _third_ meaning, or Goddess forbid anything more complex than that, because she suspected that _this _human just might, if only because it amused him.

Walling off whatever she could afford to isolate of her own mind, she balanced protecting her own sanity with actually _understanding_ the memory in question. If she didn't block anything, she had the best chance of comprehending and sorting the memory properly, but if it was a trap, she'd take the full blast, so to speak.

Knowing this kid's personality thus far, she carefully sectioned off the most vital parts of her brain and prepared for something… impossible.

There were no images, just a quiet, high pitched tune starting up, reminiscent of some human carnival music she'd heard once. It was just as annoying now as it was then, but… there was something missing. Something was wrong. The notes sounded… decrepit, or creaky and old. Goddess, she was a Spectre, not a musician.

Then the music _changed_. It got louder, dropping off the short odd notes for a more sweeping horn, organ, and piano assembly, though the creepiness stayed strong.

The something spoke.

"Grin-ning down through the _gates_, watch the night suff-o-_cate_, all the light as it _smothers_ the sun. I can tell by the moon, you'll be joining me soon, as a Guest in my For-tress of Fun!"

What.

She tried to push the memory away, but it was too late; her mind had grasped enough of the memory's substance that it was impossible to send it back to the human. She _had_ to endure it all, as the memory was now _hers_.

Girding her soul with the iron willpower she'd developed over five hundred years of war, she tried to ignore the song, but it's eerie tone and curiously dangerous voice lured out her out, as the chorus echoed in her mind.

"Face it _Bats_ – you'd be _lost_ without _meee_!"

Thankfully, after a mere three minutes, the short audio memory was over, and she could investigate his mind properly for once.

Curiously, all of his memories seemed to be from Earth, but he must have been brought up in some tourist throwback, because the technology seemed… very primitive. Despite that, the people he encountered on his travels around the planet were just as smart as some of the people she knew, albeit in different ways.

A loving mother figure, constantly back and forth with her job as a medical professional, a more remote father figure (Goddess, why did these humans have to have _two_ genders?) that was stern and stoic, but whose words of praise were worth gold. Two distant-yet-close siblings, both older, and expectations mounted on _him_ because of his status as the last child.

A while later (the meaning of time in the meld is… malleable), she thought she had him pinned as an insecure and scared little child trying to pretend to be a man; at least that's what the memory of him getting beaten into a pulp in his martial arts class seemed to suggest, as well as the other brutal fights he was beaten in seemed to suggest. Humans didn't emotionally develop faster than Asari did, right?

Wrong. Further along, after analyzing his first sixteen years, he changed as he slowly grew in the foreign boarding school his parents had sent him to, in order to increase his chances for success. Morphing into more of a careful, cautioned human being, he tried to be mature in front of his friends, but the stark change told them the truth. After a mere couple of months, he abandoned the façade, and embraced what he believed himself to be; with good timing too, just as he ventured forward with his literal crew to the national championships of rowing, only for his good spirits to be crushed by a crude semi-final assessment that kept them from the final, putting an end to his quest for a gold medal.

Good friends, close calls, and interesting experiences molded clothing and armor upon him, shaping him gradually until he reached his current state just as he entered the last year of his time at boarding school. Sport was set to the side, though he devoted himself more to his martial art in both the physical and philosophical sides, despite admitting to himself that it was very unlikely he would attain the coveted black belt. The foreign nature of the school also helped influence him, breaking him of his assumed political and social opinions and forcing him to _think_, as well as to listen and watch rather than shout and charge.

His last year before college saw him taking in younger children in the boarding house, tutoring them and instructing them in curious mental challenges, breaking the very way they thought and altering it. She could not tell if this was a good thing or not, but what she knew for sure was that by the time he entered college, he was not normal by any definition of the word.

All of this was merely a breakdown of him, however, and once she acquired the memories she had to retreat to the sanctity of her own secured mind to review the memories and attempt to understand the complexities of the vocal tone, of the things he saw and read, and more beyond.

That was most definitely _not_ the normal way of doing things. Normally, she would have made a judgment by now, and condemned him to death by ripping apart his mind so that she could acquire the core of his mind. It was, in many senses, a cipher to decode the particular way he viewed life, much like the Prothean Cipher that Commander Shepard had acquired from Shiala on Feros when she fought the Thorian and rescued the colonists and _what the fuck._

_...what the fuck._

Where the _fuck_ did that come from?

Tela Vasir was completely blindsided. Thorian? Shiala? She knew of Feros, a planet that Shepard had visited, but nothing more than the barest of details. How had that information snuck into her brain without conscious knowledge of it? She'd pulled up the information from within her own mind, but she didn't _know_ that she _knew_ that piece of intelligence.

Which meant…

She dropped her safeguards, exposing the core of her mind to the memories in an attempt to fully understand them, to live through them the exact same way that _he_ had experienced them in real life. It was a risky business, because it both exposed her to traps and contained the possibility of getting lost in _his_ memories, forgetting who she was. She had done this before, but that was on… _normal_ people. It was entirely possible that this was a trap, a lie, an elaborate trick, but what she had just said fit the intelligence gaps about Feros perfectly. Simply put, it was _too_ good to be a trap, which incidentally increased the chances of it being a trap.

However, she had to take a risk, this lead was too big to ignore.

Now exposed, open, she slowly pieces her way through the acquired memories once again. She relived _his_ life, day by day, minute by minute, her superior Asari brain sifting through his memories quickly and efficiently. While she didn't have enough time to experience the memories in real-time, she did have enough to pick out the notable pieces, one of which was…

Mass Effect, a computer (not omni-tool) program?

What?

Stopping all other functions, she fine-tuned her method, honing all of her mental processing power on digesting these odd memories, and any others bearing the 'tag' or appearance of the words "Mass Effect."

_Shit, uh… I can… explain?_

Boy, what the _fuck?_

_Well, uh… I'm a god from another dimension and I'm here to save the galaxy._

**Bullshit**. Tell me, boy, _what_ is _this_? Vasir snarled, dragging forth the memory of him _controlling the dead Commander Shepard_ as Shepard moved through Omega, shooting up mercs, talking to Aria, and rescuing someone called Garrus.

…_a fantastical delusion brought on by illegal hallucinogens._

Stop _lying_, you don't use drugs!

_How… how the feth do _you_ know that? That's ME, that's not YOU, because – oh fuck you analyzed my memorie_s.

What the fuck is all of this nonsense? Vasir roared, gripping his mind closely so that he could utilize thought speak, but nothing else.

…_figure it out yourself._ The boy impudently retorted, trying to cut himself off from her contact. Unfortunately for him, that was impossible, as she had initiated the meld, and only _she_ could stop it.

You _will_ explain what in the Goddess's name all of this impossible bullshit _is!_

_Oh, will I?_ the boy snaps, suppressed rage flowing into his words._ I don't feel like doing that right now, because that bastard Athame wasn't your FUCKING Goddess, he was your creator!_

What.

_Fuck. Fuck-fuck-fuckity-fuck._

Explain. **Now**.

_Athame was a fucking Prothean! There, are you happy?_

How the _fuck_ is that possible?

_Ask your precious Councilor Tevos, that's why she threw me into a FUCKING WALL._

You and I are going to have a nice long chat, human, Vasir says slowly, as she delicately unlocks the chains around his mind. If he's going to explain this all, _which he is_, he'll need all of his wits about him to do so.

An image of the boy (Nick, her mind insists) sitting down on a carpet with his back to a wall of mirrors springs into her mind. The boy – Nick –pats the floor beside him with jerky, robotic motions.

_Care to join me?_ he asks, though his mouth does not move. Such control of a physical manifestation is incredibly difficult, and she was not surprised that he was barely able to move his arm. This was, after all, his first time in the meld.

She materializes in the image slowly, not because of wariness, but because manifestation of oneself within the meld-scape requires both high familiarity with the location and an_ almost complete understanding_ of yourself. That the boy was able to materialize did not speak of his ability (that would require _moving_ the manifestation), but his self-confidence.

_I know who I am, no matter what happens. No one can change that, and all you really need is that surety of purpose._

It's not surety of purpose; it's pure arrogance to even _try_ to define yourself. People change, they develop and grow and _nobody knows who they are!_ By the time you understand the core of your inner being, what makes you _you_, the natural change means that the image is wrong. Manifesting a false image, an image of who you _think_ you are, is dangerous; you could accidently alter your own mind, overwriting_ who you are!_

The boy doesn't grin, but she can _taste_ his amusement and confidence over the meld.

_I know who I am, and while I might keep developing as I age, I know exactly who I am right_now_. Give me any situation to respond to, and I'll tell you. I am _me_, and I am content with that. Could I be better? Obviously, but will that stop me from plumbing my inner depth, from learning about _who_ I am? Fuck no. If I overwrite who I am with my mental image of what I am, then I'll be happy. It'll free me from all my goddamned self-doubt. Fake it 'till you make it, right?_

Groaning at the boy's irrepressible attitude, she changes to a different track, gesturing to the room around them.

It's your dojo, correct? The place where you studied martial arts for six years?

_Yes._

Why come here? Why not go to your home? Where you live on Omega? Why not go somewhere more comfortable?

_This _is_ comfortable. Sure, you see carpet and walls, no furniture, but to me it's the feeling in the room that is more important. Besides, I haven't thought of my house as my home for a long time._

It clicked in her head.

You've spent too much time away from home to feel comfortable there? She guessed, emphasizing a little bit, as Spectre business kept her far to busy to settle down anywhere.

_Kind of. It's more complex than that, but I think the time for misdirection and irrelevant crap is over._

Finally giving up on resisting, boy? she smirks, holding her manifestation's mobility over the boy, trying to milk a feeling of resentment out of him. No such luck, though, because the boy indicates that he does not care about such things.

Still, she'd played along with his bizarre mood switches and other deliberate attempts to misdirect her for long enough that she felt more than a little satisfaction that he was giving up.

_No. You've finally realized that you can't kill me. Not to brag, but I'm too important to your investigation to kill me now._

...And just like that, the satisfaction is gone.

No, you really aren't. I could strip mine your memories, your intelligence, and then leave you brain-dead on the floor of your cell, and I wouldn't lose a second of sleep over it.

_Then why haven't you?_ the boy calls her bluff, managing to exert enough mental control to quirk an eyebrow.

It's too much effort, frankly. I'd rather you tell me what I need to know.

_They don't make lazy people Spectres, lady. You're lying. But that, like this setting, is irrelevant. Are you ready to listen?_

I'm always ready to listen.

_Then don't correct me, don't interrupt me, and forget what you thought about our world. Unless you want to spend a few months analyzing my memories, sit down and shut up. I'm only going to explain this once, and after that we need to start preparing._

Preparing? she asks, slightly confused. Do you think I'm going to join _Aria's_ organization? Are you that _stupid_, boy?

_I said don't interrupt me. No, we need to prepare for the Reapers._

Kid, you've got evidence for your 'Reaper' plot, but your _own_ _mind_ contradicts you. I'm starting to suspect that a specialist in the meld got to you and fucked up your head.

_Nope. You need to stop trying to make this situation fit into your world, because it _doesn't_._

_Your world cannot logically allow my existence, because my memories indicate I am from Earth, before the discovery of Mass Effect fields, before we even started to explore space in earnest._

_You try to rationalize this as someone brainwashing me, which was a good guess, but _you're wrong.

_I have not be brainwashed, planted, or engineered to deceive you. Hell, if I had a choice, I wouldn't even be in this universe anyway._

This… universe?'

_Have you ever watched the Matrix? It's a human movie that has the closest similarity to what has happened to me._

_In long, it would take a day to fully explain everything, to make you understand _exactly_ what I have been thrust into. So I'm going to take the short route and steal a few lines from the movie I just mentioned._

_Your world is a lie. If you've read your Carroll, then you know of the expression 'down the rabbit hole.' While I don't have any LSD handy to help you trip out and fuck up your mind, I believe the expression fits._

_I can't tell you the truth, though I may try for days. You have to see it for yourself, you have to consciously believe in the truth._

_You have two options._

_You can take the blue pill, and this story ends right here, right now. I die, you seize my memories, and wake up in that cold cell, denying what you find in my brain and believing whatever you want to believe, regardless of whatever you do about the Reapers._

_Or you can take the red pill, and stay in wonderland, and I can show you exactly how deep the rabbit hole goes – which I only just realized is hilariously inappropriate while we're melding._

_Anyway, I've never been good at extended metaphors, so the long and the short of it is that you can believe me and try to save the galaxy, _again_; or you can ignore me, save the galaxy and wonder how I gained all my information, how I came to know so much despite being just another young mouthy punk. It'll be a miracle; 'the Spectre who saved us with her vision of the future.'_

_Or you can extend a little faith, and believe what I'm trying to tell you._

So… assuming I actually _believe_ your brand of madness, human, what can you say to me that is more outrageous than a race of ancient sentient starships are coming to kill us all? Oh, and your stupid metaphor was fucking atrocious.

_A month ago, I thought that 'Mass Effect' was nothing but a computer game. A month ago, I was home, and then by some impossibility, I was on Omega, in a place I 'knew' to be fictional. Obviously, that is no longer true._

_In short, I've been dropped into your universe, and now I have to try to stop an apocalypse if I want to live. Please, forgive me if I come off as a little jerkish, I'm under a little stress, and I need your help._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>I have two shout-outs for this chapter, one to** Kaiya Smith **and the other to **Mitsukuri Tsukiyama.**

**Kaiya Smith **is a regular commenter who has been with this story from the beginning, and is a clever thinker who regularly gives me wonderful ideas that would fit in perfectly with the crowd at my preferred environment, the SpaceBattles forums. Props to her for correctly predicting Tevos's reaction to my rather blatant blackmail attempt.

**Mitsukuri Tsukiyama **posted his first review for the story with the musing query of how the Citadel would react to my presence, given that I am not in any known database. Despite the fact I used Aria to tell myself (in-story) not to worry about customs, Mits correctly predicted that Aria assumed I would have _some_ form of ID, and than as an SI, I was without such ID. Kudos to him!

Omake 1 **The Mirror 'Verse, **or **The Goatee 'Verse **(LoneWolf666)

Original Quote: I got it! You're a sleeper agent from mirror verse system alliance! Too bad you don't have any goatee.

"Has agent Xeno Major successfully cross the dimmension wall?"

"Yes, Emperor Udina. Although there was a slight glitch, it went without a problem."

"Good, reset it. I want my right hand Shepard and the crew of I.S.S Normandy to go through, and prepare the way for the invasion fleet let by Grand Imperial Admiral Anderson."

"My Emperor! There was another attack by the terrorist group Cerebrus, freeing several formal citadel species slaves."

"TTTTTTTIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIMMM MMM!"

Omake 2 **The Mind of Madness**, or **Why you shouldn't mess with the Madgod's Chosen** ( (Xeno Major)

After far too much time peeling the human's mind open, she was finally there. His bizarre intelligence was recorded, and all the impossible facts were in her mind.

All that was left was the core of his being, the essential fabric that was him, that nobody else could possibly be. It was almost like an individual Cipher, akin to the Prothean Cipher that Shepard had been chasing a few months before, and would help her understand his thoughts within the memories.

"Oh, WHY _helloo_ there, lassie. And how're ye doin' this _**lovely**_ day?"

What. Vasir paused, looking around for the source of the voice. It wasn't a thought projection, like the human had been doing earlier, this was a clearly audible voice.

But sound didn't transmit in the meld...

"Would that stop somebody like **ME**, really? Oh, the _fun_ I could have with you, you delicious fish-girl. Ooh, fishie-_stick_-girls, what a _delight_!"

Her vision, too, was impossibly returning.

This _could not happen in the meld_! She screamed in thought-talk, her mind wavering in the face of this utter impossibility.

"Well, then let's step outside for a minute then, eh? Or inside, if ye prefer that."

Her eyes, which _could not be used in the meld,_ began to see an impossible room, dark and gloomy but at the same time bright and vibrant in colors in combinations that were both nauseating _and_ stylish, weaving a picture were not meant to be seen by sane eyes.

A river of lava flowing down the sides, _touching_ a river of water, and past the two-tone carpet was a throne, holding a solitary figure. The man's face also bore a beard, she noted mechanically, but his face was not the smirking, joking one of the boy. His looked like it should be though, she mused, before realizing in horror that _she hadn't thought that_. The thought had just... _popped_ into her mind, like - like -like -

"Like a delicious CHERRY, plucked ripe from the vine and tossed your way because it was pleasant, yes?" the man says, laughing boisterously, his voice filling the throneroom. His face, as she had been _forced to think_, was normally an amused, fun-filled one, but right now it was deadly serious, boiling with an inner rage that _**defied**_ mortal comprehension.

"Now, ye've gone'n shredded my_ poor wee_ friend's _**mind**_, lassie, and _I'll_ have to build it back up from what I can _remember_, and that's not a task I like at all."

Who... who are you? Vasir tried to ask as her body collapsed to the floor, her lips refusing the command to open.

But of course, this did not hamper the Man from hearing.

"Me? Why do _you_ care, when ye dinnae ask my _partner HIS name_?"

Where others would have risen from the Throne to make a point, the Man sits and glares, tapping his gnarled staff in annoyance.

"Nae, ye didn't. But, here in _oooold_ New Sheoth, or should that be New-New Sheoth, _we_ have courtesy. So before I give you some the best Cheese in all the 'verses, I'll introduce myself, then."

An image smashed through her mental barriers, shattering what remained of her self control.

It was life and death in perfect balance, with the god turning into another god, only to be slain by himself who was to become the new god over the remain of the old god, absorbing the memories and personality of the last god.

It was a three hundred year-old child, skilled in killing.

It was a cat-man who ran faster than all in the world, regardless of form, and who talked of himself in third person, observing and commenting on the fourth wall of the room to the confusion of the rest in the room, _only for the comments to make perfect sense._

It was _Madness_, yet it was _Sane. _The mixture of _what we know to be Madness _was purified, one was enlightened to discover that what they called _Madness _was not, and that what they called _Sanity_ was, in fact, _Madness_.

Not... words... Vasir gasps, unable to speak as her mind had the image, the very _concept_ itself of Madness itself was **shoved** with brute force into her mind's very core.

"Of course not, lassie. Ye weren't gentle with me ol' drinking buddy, so WHY should I be _gentle with YOU_?"

Before her brain shut down, unable to handle the massive sensory overload, Vasir understood the true meaning of Madness.

"Care for some _**cheese,**_ dear?"

Omake 3 **SpaceBattles Effect**, or **The Intro to a SpaceBattles version of Mass Effect** (Cyko204, edited by Trivia Freak)

In 2153, a human-based electronic social-interaction forum board, known as SpaceBattles, was discovered by the wider galaxy after the electronic forum was introduced to the extranet.

In recent years, Spacebattles has also gained popularity amongst Salarians and a significant number of Turians, and also boasts a number of members from other species as well.

Most notably, however, is the site's Elcor Admin. Known only as 'YouGotStrogged,' his sarcasm is the stuff of forum legend.

But the discovery of the Spacebattles forum terrified the Citadel Council for three reasons.

One; members were paranoid, but also reasonable.

Two; certain members of Spacebattles, the hobbyists, worked on problems that divisions of mainstreams scientists had only just begun to seriously examine. However, most of these hobbyists quote the phrase, "at sufficient velocity," enough times to cause serious worry.

Three; boasting a member count steadily climbing to a two-and-a-half million mark, there are several outlier members (around two hundred or so) that openly admit to being synthetic. Investigation has proved that sixty or seventy of these members were telling the truth, while another eleven could not be proven or refuted. At least four of Spacebattles' members are Geth.


	6. Chapter 6

**08:23, Presidium Time**

**September 11th, 2183**

C-Sec Holding Cell, Citadel

It was quiet in the meld after that, silent for a moment. Of course, I started to consider how a mental meld could be quiet, because a person couldn't just stop thinking, but the answer popped up from Vasir's own memories, her subconscious letting me know that the silence merely meant the Vasir was in complete shock.

Of course, by 'letting me know', I mean that I read her mind; that I'm _reading_ her mind. The meld is no longer oppressive, no longer a domination of will with Vasir crushing me beneath her.

Say I believe this craziness, Vasir projects slowly, her thoughts hesitant. What would we do then?

_Say? _Say_? Darling, you can see my damn memories, you know that I'm legit._

Or a very, _very_ elaborate fake.

_Fine, then, let me prove it._

You can't, Nick. Everything you do or say could have been arranged by an organization.

_Unless I predict something happening; unless I predict numerous things happening, things beyond the capability of one group._

Okay, Nick. Bedazzle me.

_Garrus Vakarian, squadmate of Commander Shepard, is in C-Sec right now, and will be departing for Omega if he hasn't already. He's gathered or will gather a squad of twelve individuals, including Lantar Sidonis, another turian, and together they'll wage a war on crime on Omega, conducting raids against the Blue Suns, Blood Pack, and Eclipse, and everything in between. They'll try to avoid civilian casualties, but they don't mess with Aria because she's the only thing even resembling authority on Omega._

You could have engineered that.

_Another, then. Liara T'Soni, Shepard's asari scientist on the squad, is now directly competing with your former boss to recover Shepard's body. The Broker wants the body because the Collectors are paying him for it, and in desperation T'Soni is working with Cerberus, who are going to try to resurrect Shepard with extensive cybernetics and other bizarre science, under the code-name Project Lazarus. Biblical references always were the most obvious, but unlike almost every other Cerberus projects, this one will actually work (well, technically...). Shepard will be back two years and twelve days after the Collectors killed her, and after that, T'Soni will set her sights on the Broker himself._

Right, that's when I'm supposed to get involved, according to your 'memories'.

_Isn't that nice? I can actually tell that you put airquotes around that! This meld has a lot of useful abilities, almost like someone tried to balanced the horrible mind-rapey-ness of it._

Focus, Nick. She thinks of how the boy gets easily distracted, but, of course, the boy hears that thought and gives unspoken approval, as well as an idle image of some human dressed in a tweed jacket and wearing a bow-tie. She snorted once, then tossed the image aside.

What was that? She questions, confused.

_Nothing, just a man from an old TV show back Home. Ooh, if _I_ got transported to this universe, what are the chances of _him_ doing that?_

Impossible, boy. Consciously crossing into another universe isn't simply hard to accomplish, there's no way to even _begin_ research on it. Now, what was it you were saying about T'Soni on Illium?

_Yeah, that's where you normally come in to play in the games. You're an enemy to Shepard, despite appearing quite good, and we never get the chance to convince you to help us take out the Broker. I always thought it was a waste of a perfectly good Spectre._

You know, if I wasn't reading your brain, I'd take that as flirting.

_You know what I meant, Vasir. With a veteran Asari Spectre on our side, the Council wouldn't be as much of a problem, and we could prepare for the Reapers properly._

Which brings me back to my point. If I believe this stuff, then tell me what the next part of your plan is, now that you've failed to blackmail the Council?

_Who says I _failed_?_

You got thrown into a wall, I'd take that as a failure.

_You're smarter than that, darling, don't try to play stupid around me, it'll just get you scathing sarcasm. You know just how curious Sparatus and Valern are, now that I've hinted about Asari superiority._

Actually, I don't. I didn't get any chance to see what happened in the Council chambers, Tevos had the recording wiped instantly.

_Oh. Well, basically…_

I draw up the very recent memory, projecting it over to her and meshing my mind fully with hers, sharing my insight and my thoughts during the memory. Huh… that gives me an idea about using the meld to recall memories perfectly…

…ah. So she cut you off just before you said Thessia.

_Yup. So Sparatus and Valern are going be investigating into the Asari veeerry carefully. Still, I'm annoyed I didn't get a chance to finish._

Finish? What, so you could start a civil war? How in the Goddess would that help prepare for the Reapers?

_First of all, screw Athame, he was a scientist, not a god. And yes, I think that I should have finished, because if I only got out one piece of blackmail, it _would_ start a civil war. If I can say _everything_ I want to, I can get unparalleled access to the resources of the Council. You didn't think the Salarians and the Turians were clean as a whistle, did you?_

No, I've seen too much for that. But all the possible blackmail you could have wouldn't be enough to get what you want, Nick, you have to know that.

_Oh… darling… you didn't process my memories at all, did you?_

I can process the memories of a simpleton easily, but your mind is just fucked up enough that I'll need more time, punk. It's not that you're a genius, it's that you are the craziest fucking human I've met in all my life. See, you've even got me swearing like a human.

_Heh. You're welcome. Here, let me show you what the Turians and Salarians have to fear from me. For an added bonus, I'll even tell you how this works in my favor, if you can't figure it out quickly enough._

With that, I pass forward the memories of the turian bomb on Tuchanka, then the ones of Mordin's confession about the modification of the Genophage. Just for an extra touch, I add the ones of the Salarian STG base in the third game, as well as the sabotage in the Shroud.

_So yeah, if I was to tell the krogan of the bomb, combined with the genophage modification, they'll get sufficiently pissed off that I could restart the Krogan Rebellions, albeit temporarily. The krogan wouldn't have the reproduction numbers to properly overwhelm the Citadel, but there are still more than enough krogan to cause a serious dent in Citadel numbers. If the krogan could move fast enough, they could decapitate the Council. After all, there are no better shock-troops than krogan berserkers, eh?_

That's….

_Lost for words? Heh._

You'd unleash the krogan on the Council, just to make a damn _point_?

_Yes. In a heartbeat. Care to know why?_

Yes! Why in hell would you do such a thing? You'd weaken us for the Reapers catastrophically! We'd have no chance at all if we had to re-wage the Krogan Rebellions again!

_Because I could get the genophage cured. Because I can talk to Wrex and convince him to settle the debt _after_ we destroy the Reapers._

Genophage – cured? No, that's impossible! The krogan have tried, believe me! I've shut down a dozen of Warlord Okeer's projects to cure the genophage; it isn't that simple!

_It is. Remember Mordin? The best damn salarian in the galaxy? He modified the genophage, and he still has STG access. I know that Mordin's feeling guilt over his actions; he's a true saint, in every meaning of the word. If I tell him about the Shroud sabotage, about the research his student, Maelon, will start soon, he'll help me shut down Maelon's genophage cure. Then, taking that data as well as the surviving krogan females, we could work on a genophage cure with less barbaric means, and since Mordin has access to the original genophage data where Okeer didn't._

_Mordin's right on the edge of his decision to help the krogan, he won't need too much of a push to get to work. All we need to do is make sure the Dalatrass, that bitch, won't interfere. To do that, I need to gain the support, willing or not, of the Council._

That will never work, and you know it.

_Yeah, it was a stretch... Still, it was only a first draft, I hadn't had as much time as I wanted to refine that idea._

Honestly, why in hell would you come to blackmail the Council then? It doesn't make sense.

_Mostly, it was to see if I _could_. If I could influence politics or opinion at that high of a level. If I could, then I knew that I was – that I had the possibility of becoming a major player in the Great Game._

_Though…._

'Though' what? What are you hinting towards now, with your usual fucking bluntness?

_Well, the whole Korgan thing was just so that I could get access to a Spectre or a ship. I suppose then that it worked out, since I got _you_ on my side, and you have a ship, do you not?_

I do, and _what_ would _you_ be planning to do with a ship?

Nothing major, I swear. Just more preparation for the War.

Tell me. Now. Before you _start_ a war.

_It's really nothing! It shouldn't be that hard to do, and no one would know until the War started, I swear!_

The more you say 'I swear', the more I get worried. Tell me what you plan to do with my ship.

_Well… first I have to send a few message probes through a Mass Relay…. then I go to where the probes were sent._

**Where.**

_The Tikkun system. Fascinating place, really, with a good sized industrial base that has room for expansion, and a nearly abandoned nebula just _full_ of resources. Even better, nobody has touched the space for a good couple hundred years, so we don't even have to beat off the pirates or anything!_

Though the meld should prevent her from feeling such a physical reaction, Vasir felt her skin chill as the pieces clicked.

You… insane… demented idiot. They'd never work with you, they've destroyed every ship to ever try to get past the Veil! How in the Goddess's name do you think you can convince them to work with you?

_I'm going to tell them that I know the future, drop the names of a dozen terms that _only **they **_use, and then see what happens. Best case, I become their messiah. Worst case, I get a story out of it. Wait, no, worst case, I die, and they prepare for the Reapers anyway. If I can get the Von Neumann machines to start preparing for the Reapers two years ahead of schedule, I'd consider that worthy of my life._

_Besides, if anyone was going to believe me, it'd be the Geth. They're logical like that._

* * *

><p>When we come out of the meld, it's quiet.<p>

Well, obviously. Sound-proof cell, and all that.

But we don't talk. Vasir nods at me, and I nod back. Nothing more is needed.

After I dropped the Geth bombshell, so to speak, we talked for a little while longer. We went over plans, both vague and specific. What to do, and when to do it. I shared some of my ideas for adapting weapons tech from different places, such as the wedge-firing mod. Vasir showed quite a bit of interest in my talk of biotic martial arts, so I know now that such a thing is indeed possible. Even talked about a shopping list, if you believe that.

We agreed not to talk after the meld. No need to let the world know that we were collaborating. No need to let Tevos (and God knows who else) figure out that I'd swayed Vasir over to my side.

For now, I'm just a punk who got slammed into a wall by Tevos. I got too big for my britches, and now I've been put into my place.

We agreed to maintain that illusion, for as long as we can make it last. Until my powerbase has increased, I can't make myself a target to the Broker, Cerberus, or any of the hundred other organizations like them.

So when Vasir laughs a cold, cruel laugh, I flinch. When she stands up, I move to tackle her. No lie in that, I move as fast as I can, just like if I actually wanted to tackle her. If it wasn't full force, the others would notice.

Of course, Vasir's a Spectre, so she bats me aside almost contemptuously, with the ease of experience.

I catch myself before I faceplant into the cell floor, but only barely. Vasir's good, and due to necessity, neither of us are pulling any blows, giving any sign that we have a plan.

We don't know if the Broker has access to the cameras in the cells, but the information is there, so we can't meet and be friendly anywhere where we could be observed. For the sake of the galaxy, we are enemies right now.

Vasir moves to the door, one eye warily on my prone form, and says something in asari. I don't know what it was, since they took my translator along with my omni-tool. The door obligingly opens, and Vasir motions me through first. Eyes blinking in the sudden light, I'm surprised to see the same blonde C-Sec agent from customs manning the guard post.

The little foyer from the hallways of cells is brightly lit, presumably to harness that sudden change in lighting as a security measure. The rest of the room is, as most Citadel rooms are, tastefully decorated with a little paint and trim that accentuates the metal quite nicely. All in all, the room looks quite a bit like the C-Sec outpost in the Presidium Commons that I saw in the third game, except for the small hallway of jail cells.

"Howdy, lovely lady; how are you this fine day?" I ask, my cheerful not-quite-swagger back in full force.

The blonde (Pallin, was it?) quirks an eyebrow, but otherwise says nothing. I open my mouth to speak again, but a hand clamps on my left shoulder, and I shut up instantly. I know intellectually that it's Vasir, but my instincts _scream_ at me, and I react automatically.

I spin on my left heel, right arm snapping up into a bastardized middle-block. Any Shotokan instructor would have bawled me out for mutating the 'proper' technique, but Shinpu-Ren, my chosen style, would praise me for it.

My forearm smashes aside Vasir's gripping hand, and my left hand shoots up for a throat-punch.

Vasir sweeps my left hand to the side effortlessly, though, while her other hand _smacks_ me upside the head, making it spin a little, since she's still wearing armor. She takes a slight step back, bringing her out of my arm's reach, not that it would stop a fight from going down if it came to that. The message is quite obvious, but Vasir comments just in case it wasn't.

"Cool your jets, punk." Vasir sneers, her tone containing the barest hints of the playfulness underneath. "I don't want to have to bring a cripple to the Council."

"_Don't_ grab me." I grumble, turning back to the disinterested C-Sec agent. Her eyebrow remains quirked upwards, as if to comment on the matter, but she refrains from commenting. Good for her, my head aching like a _bitch_ right now. Damnit Vasir, I understand you need to make the act convincing, but _fuck, _that _hurt!_

"Your gear." she points, over to the bench where my omni-tool, translator-bluetooth lookalike, and bag lay.

"Thanks." I nod again in respect to her as I groan, and plop myself down on the metal bench.

"Don't get any ideas now," Vasir smirks as she leans in, using her armor to intimidate me. "Nothing fancy with that omni-tool, or I blow your brains out faster than you can say 'Citadel.'"

Lips pursing in a scowl, I nod my head, disgruntled, and it's not entirely an act. I also rub my calves a little, trying futilely get rid of the pain from Vasir's deflection of my kick before she mind-raped me. Another thing that I know intellectually but didn't 'click', getting manhandled by someone in armor _hurts like nothing else. _Imagine getting beaten with a length of rebar, and you've got a start.

But it's equipment time now. First, I attach the 'hub' of my omni-tool to my belt, testing it to make sure it's configured properly before clipping on the translator/bluetooth to my left ear. Wouldn't want a burst of ear-shattering static in my ear, now would I? After that, I dig through my bag until I pull out my slim black gloves, tugging them on carefully lest I damage the connection to my omni-tools sensors. My sling-bag goes over top of my black warm-up top, and I make sure my shades are in their case. I won't need them now, and they've been rubbing uncomfortably against the translator, so I leave them in the backpack.

"Come along now, punk, the Council would like to meet with you." Vasir says, letting me lead so that she can watch me from behind, just in case I try anything.

Of course, the blonde slaps a pair of tight fitting sci-fi handcuffs on me before I go, and I note how I am suddenly incapable of wiggling my fingers. Some way of restricting the nervous system? I have _got_ to look into that.

This is the part I don't like, where I have to follow a plan that I now know to be flawed. Usually, I'd abandon the plan and change tactics immediately, but I've made an impression on the Council. I can't leave without trying again, unintimidated by the Council's dog, or they'll know that something's changed.

Because I don't give up so easily, I must follow my old plan for fear of alerting the Council to Vasir's changing of sides.

On the bright side, at least I get to blackmail the rest of the Council. I have two more to insult and put in their place, so I might as well get to it.

The walk through C-Sec is quiet, though still interesting as my eyes dart to everything I find interesting, which is almost everything. Of particular note, I see Executor Pallin in a very open office, bawling out some poor human beat-cop for likely he fucked up, while a turian officer in non-standard armor stands next to him, radiating rage.

I slow my walk just a tad, trying to keep my curiosity as subtle as possible. The angle I was looking from didn't show me the left side of the unknown turian's face and his right arm is concealed behind a pillar; unfortunately I couldn't keep turning my head because of how incredibly obvious it would be. Instead, I look forward and keep walking, glancing over my left shoulder about four feet further.

The turian officer, much as I suspected, bore a visor over his left eye, a familiar set of blue face paint, and a gold eagle emblazoned on his right arm.

_Garrus Vakarian, everyone. Smile while you can, Garrus ol' buddy, 'cause it's not gonna get any happier._

I dragged my foot a little on my next step, tapping it on the ground twice, before tilting my head slightly to the left, towards the Executor and his two men. The rest of the walk is silent and uneventful, and neither Vasir or I speak lest we look suspicious.

As we move through C-Sec, Vasir steps up to match my pace, walking alongside me, though her stance is still one that says 'Spectre escorting lawbreaker', and I observe that stance will let her tackle me nigh-instantly if it comes down to it. It's just an act, of course, or at least I hope. I'd rather not get tackled by someone in armor, it'd end my me being a little squishier than before, and I don't want that.

Nodding to the C-Sec receptionist, Vasir leads me to an elevator, and waits for me to enter first, another part of the 'criminal' act.

Vasir looks up, seemingly annoyed, and waves an omni-tool at the camera in an upper corner of the elevator, and it whirrs, before it tremors with a small _pop_.

"Detonated the power cell." Vasir answers my unspoken question without a pause, before sweeping for other bugs. After a second, she's content, though I do notice a wince, presumably directed at the music choice. At least it's not the Girl from Ipanema, though it's quickly starting to wear on me. The elevators of infinite annoyance were something I heard about but missed, since I didn't play the first game, and with this new experience, I was _glad_ I didn't.

"Pallin, an incompetent human, and another turian. Anything special I was supposed to see?" Vasir says quietly.

"The turian was Vakarian, Garrus Vakarian, one of Shepard's squadmates. That's my proof, there. In a few weeks, Vakarian will've resigned from C-Sec, if he doesn't today. He'll wind his way to Omega, and will take up the identity of Archangel. Keep an eye on him, quietly, and you'll see that I'm not lying." I explain softly, not entirely trusting her sweep for bugs.

"I'll keep an eye on him, then. But for now, you've got the benefit of the doubt."

"Why thank you, darlin, for your unwavering support." I drawl, wincing a little as my head throbs in pain. I cautiously feel up my head, and sure enough, there'll be a bruise there for a while to come. "Did you have to smack me so hard?"

"You know I did."

"Perhaps I should have asked 'did you have to enjoy it so much?'"

Vasir gave a small grin, and I shuddered at the thought of more powerful women in my life. Why couldn't there be some man-to-man bro-time, instead of always running around with women who could smear me against a wall?

It'd be a little better if I could enjoy being around them, but… well, shivers run up my spine whenever I even _think_ about Asari melding now. The possibility to crush someone's mind beneath you, to utterly dominate them… I'm starting to see why the Asari want to cover up the existence Ardat Yakshi Asari as much as they can, because that puts a serious block on their sex appeal.

"You deserved it." Vasir says simply, as if that solves the matter.

"Yes, but not from you. I didn't owe you any smacks, so you owe me one." I refute, the familiarity of this conversation reminding me unpleasantly of Home, where I'd had this very conversation with many female friends.

"After that whole debacle? You _needed_ a smack, unless you want to meet the Council with the same arrogant attitude that got you thrown into a wall?" Vasir points out.

"Well, it's like I always said back Home." I shrug, bending down to stretch my calves while I can, hoping to work the kinks out of them. "If you bang your head against enough walls, you figure out where there aren't any walls, or you learn where you can break the damn walls _down_."

"You're joking with me, right?" Vasir asks, slightly annoyed. "You're going to try the _exact same thing_ and hope it works out differently? Isn't that the textbook definition for insanity?"

"I always thought that was the textbook example of stupidity, but that's beside the point." I parry.

"Then what is the point?" Vasir demands, giving me a bit of a glare.

"The situation has changed. Tevos expected you to either kill me or fry me, and instead I'm going to return like a conquering hero, with Sparatus and Valern listening _very_ closely to what I have to say. There is no way they ignored my spiel after Tevos lost it, and Tevos knows that, which is going to make it interesting when I show them the dirt on the Salarians and the Turians." I explain, making sure to remember that Vasir is a Spectre, someone far past my own intelligence.

It's time to check to make sure my voice doesn't sound condescending, as it usually does when I start to rant. I've got to remember that this isn't some dumb yokel or brainwashed politico I'm talking to, it's a g_odd_amned Spectre.

"Speaking of which, I'll have to come up with a reason for that." Vasir muses to herself, rubbing her chin. Observing the movement, I chuckle internally, though I can't stroke my beard with these cuffs on. At least I've got that slim advantage over her, stroking your chin doesn't look nearly as impressive without a beard.

"How about 'Aria's already annoyed, and she favors this one, so let's not piss her off any more?'" Vasir suggested. "Aria has always has a very firm hold over Tevos, although _she_ was never stupid enough to reveal her blackmail in front of the other Councilors. All we need is for Aria to tell Tevos that you'll keep your mouth shut, and you'll be left alone."

"You know, that could work." I say.

"Which leads me to my next question." Vasir continues, her gaze increasing a little in intensity, giving me a little flutter of alarm. "Why didn't you bring Aria in on this? You could have easily convinced her, if you had even _tried_ to convince her to meld with you. You'd have saved a couple weeks, _and_ you wouldn't have had to risk everything by trying to blackmail the Council."

"…_oh_… hm." I consider, thinking about it. "Yeah, _that_ could've worked a lot better. Oh well."

" 'Oh well'?" Vasir snaps, turning genuinely angry. "You… little… stupid…_monkey_! If you had done that earlier, you would've_ never come this close to death!_ That's bigger than just an '_oh well_!"

"I suppose." I shrug. "Too late now, though. Work with what'ya got. No point in thinking about what could've been, so the only efficient thing to say is 'oh well.' Sheesh, calm down lady, it's not that big of a deal."

"You – insufferable – _human_!" Vasir exclaims furiously, though thankfully she doesn't hit me again.

It's a little awkward in the elevator after that.

Seriously, how long do these g_odd_amn elevators take? Is this some form of trolling from the Reapers?

With a muted _ding_, the elevator finally slows and comes to a stop.

"Finally." I mutter, stepping out of the elevator before it can get any more awkward. I start walking, but after a few steps, I realize that Vasir isn't with me.

I pause, looking back over my shoulder, and see Vasir still standing in the elevator.

Slowly, she steps up to me, but her movements are mechanical.

"You okay?" I ask, a tad concerned over her actions.

_SMACK_

"Ow." I deadpan, rubbing my shoulder with unmoving fingers (harder than it sounds). "Okay, maybe I deserved that."

_SMACK_

"I definitely didn't deserve that one." I argue.

The hand raises once more, and I quickly skip out of the way.

"Stop it! Stop it!" I protest, as Vasir moves closer, hands raised to smack. "At least take my cuffs off if you want to manhandle me!"

Vasir stops, and I furrow my brows, wondering how that actually got her to stop. Cautiously, I step back towards her, ready to move on to the Council, but she's not done yet.

_SMACK_

"Not in your wildest dreams, pervert." Vasir mutters, before striding away.

Damnit woman!

Rubbing my chest with immobile hands, I swear before heading to catch up.

Seriously, what the hell is _with_ these women?

* * *

><p>"Ah, good of you to join us, Tela, though I don't know why you bothered to bring that insufferable human brat."<p>

The Council's private meeting chambers are still as opulent and well-decorated as ever, but this time around, Councilors Sparatus and Valern appear to be elsewhere.

_Oh, I wonder where they could be? Perhaps in their offices, grumbling over the fact that Tevos kicked them out?_

"How _good_ to see you again Tevos," I reply in mock cheer. "How _are _you today? Did the thought of my death brighten your day, or are you down in the dumps because I'm still so _obviously_ alive?"

"Nick." Aria cuts in, her steely gaze meeting mine and giving me an unsubtle hint to drop it. I have no doubt that Aria's pissed about me messing up a very profitable blackmail situation; had I simply approached Tevos when we were alone, it would have been a lot less stressful. Instead, I blew my chance and messed it all up.

"Hey, boss." I jauntily respond, nodding to her. "Sorry about earlier, I guess I forgot where I was. Don't worry, though, I'll make it up to you, I swear."

"Tela, why didn't you kill him?" Tevos sighs, rubbing her brow in frustration.

"Well, I figured that Aria's already annoyed quite a bit by this humans distraction, and she appears to favor him a bit. After a bit of deliberation, I realized that Aria could be quite an ally if we gave her what she wanted _this_ time. No reason to offend the Queen of Omega, after all." Vasir answers smoothly as she takes a seat at a comfy-looking asari-made chair while I am forced to keep standing.

Combine that with the fact Tevos is addressing her by first name, and I'd say that Vasir is no stranger to this private chamber.

Tevos frowns at Vasir's answer, unhappy with being reminded that Aria has a hold over her. Then the frown turns even more sour, and I smirk in response. If I'm reading this right, Tevos just remembered that Aria doesn't have a hold over Vasir, which makes this response even more out of character.

This can go two ways, and the more probable way is that Tevos assumes Vasir saw something in my brain that meant Aria would be enraged at my death and would be angry enough to use whatever hold she had on Tevos to ruin her career (which is what I _want_ her to think).

Of course, the other possibility is that Tevos figures out I turned Vasir to the other side, but I doubt she'll figure out that I turned Vasir to _my_ side and not _Aria's_.

"Tevos, trust me when I say that it's better for us if this punk lives." Vasir says, strictly reminding Tevos that she was appointed Spectre for a reason. "You _do_ still trust me, don't you Tevos?"

Tevos nodded, though she looked a tad reluctant.

"Oh, and Aria?" Vasir continues, turning to look at the indifferent asari warlord. "I know."

Huh?

"Do you now?" Aria questions slyly, leaning further back into her couch. "That would be intimidating, if you weren't so damn vague about it. Care to elaborate, _dear_?"

Vasir smirks, while I shuffle my feet uncomfortably and rub my forearms together, trying to ignore the unpleasant numbness that's coming from my hands.

"I know about the Beacon that you're holding over Tevos."

What?

_What?_

"Oh shit, _that's _how you got your power!" I bark in surprise, eyes widening as Aria's gaze flits from Vasir to me.

Oh fuck, _that means I was using Aria's power without-_

"Fuck, I am _so sorry I can't properly express it, _Aria, please, forgive me, I didn't know and I didn't mean to fuck it up for you, I swear!" babbling, I frantically try to appease Aria, who still looks unflappably menacing despite the ungodly rage she's got to be feeling.

_Fuck_, I used _Aria's blackmail_ without her express permission! I fucked it up and now Sparatus and Valern are on to the secret, meaning _I've hurt Aria!_

Oh fuck, I am dead. I am _so dead._

"Aria, do you mean to tell me that the human brat wasn't working on your behalf earlier?" Tevos demands, rising from her seat to point at me. "So all that explaining to keep Sparatus and Valern in the dark was because _one human brat_ couldn't learn to keep his Goddess-damned _mouth shut?_"

"It looks that way, doesn't it?" Aria replies evenly, not even twitching a muscle, impossibly cool under fire.

"Aria, seriously, I had _no idea, _please don't-"

"Don't _what, _exactly Nick?" Aria interrupts. "What do you think I'm going to do to you?"

"…kill me?" I suggest, my racing mind slowly down and starting to take stock of the situation. Aria's playing this cool, watching how it goes down, and as usual she's probably going to come out ahead because of that.

Which means she'll want to know _how_ I acquired this information, and whatever other useful knowledge I might have.

Which pretty much means I have to tell her the secret, but I'll be damned if I'm going to tell _Tevos_.

"Or," I say quickly, so that Aria can't follow through with my suggestion (not that she necessarily would). "You could simply ask for everything I know, and _I will tell you_. I won't say it's for fear of my life, because I've been dreading you finding out what I know for a while now, and this will get it off my chest, so to speak."

"Also, Vasir, can you take these damn handcuffs off? I'm already a control freak as it is, I don't need anything else to get on my nerves and constantly tick me off."

"Well Nick, as much as I love to see you in pain and agony, I think just this once I can oblige you, on the condition that you stop chattering." Vasir smirks as she steps forward.

"Funny," I bite off, as the numbness starts spreading further up my wrists and into my forearms. "The funnier part is that _I actually believe you._ Wonder what that says about your treatment of me thus far, o' noble Spectre? Are these cuffs even legal, or are they _suppose_ to slowly render a man permanently incapable of using his hands?"

"Nick, shut up." Aria's annoyed voice instructs, though she retains her aloof lounging, clearly in charge of the room.

"Shutting up."

"Whipped." Vasir whispers, taunting me.

"Shut up hypocrite." I shoot back.

_SMACK_

Should've seen that coming. Oh well, at least it was only in the shoulder.

"So I'm supposed to ignore this brat, after he revealed almost everything to Sparatus and Valern?" Tevos demands, her eyes narrowing as her usual calm and tranquil expression splits into rage. "Aria, if anything, this child needs to be silenced, not left alive to pull more of his dirty tricks. Please, just let me dispose of him and you'll have no more trouble from me."

Aria tilts her head and folds her arms over her corset and jacket, looking ambivalent.

By me, Vasir keys in the proper code and the cuffs unlatch and de-activate, releasing the unnatural numbness from my flesh. I'm not sure if the cuffs merely cut off my feeling or if they actually cut off the blood flow (stupidly, I didn't look at my hands to see if they were changing color), but I think I'll be fine. Vasir wouldn't be mean enough to screw me over like that, right?

Right?

"You know," I say in a wistful tone. "This sounds like a whole lot of fuss for one little child."

"Nick, shut up. Adults are talking." Aria commands, though her tone is much softer than I expected from Aria (though it still gets its point across). "Unless you know how to get the other Councilors to get their mouths shut."

I hesitate. On one hand, I'm doing the exact same thing that got me thrown into a wall.

On the other hand, it's a chance to impress Aria and possibly gain her trust.

I've been thrown, kicked and knocked into walls a fair bit in these last couple years of my life, so why not add another one onto that count? It's not like my physical condition matters in the long run. Pain is an illusion, and all that. Well, I suppose that isn't true, not with how much of it I have to deal with on a daily basis.

"Well…" I start, striding over to a leather recliner that looks suspiciously familiar to the one on Aria's ship and dropping my weary body onto it's welcoming embrace. "I might."

Aria doesn't say anything, just tilts her head back over to me in her usual fashion. It's a signal that means, 'continue' in Aria's unique dialect of lounging body language.

"Not here." I curtly reply, flicking my eyes over to Tevos, who has composed herself back into her polite and serene public persona.

"You don't trust me?" Tevos asks, her voice returning to that sincere and sweet tone.

"No offense, lady," I say with blunt and efficient truth. "You _did_ throw me into a wall."

"Is that all it takes to poison our relationship?" Tevos inquires.

Damn, I'll give Tevos credit; I've never met a person before who could lie with their eyes. If it wasn't for my knowledge of her character, I'd be buying her act hook, line, and sinker.

"Yes." I answer, a tinge of a smirk.

"Nick, will this get in my way?" Aria questions, eyes narrowing a little, temporarily distracting me as the arch tattoo on her brow folds in on itself.

"No, Aria, unless you order me to say it here." I tell her, meeting her eyes and holding her gaze. It's not a romantic gesture, it's one of measuring respect. I don't blink, don't turn away, I just hold that gaze for a good ten seconds before she nods. She understands.

Of course, that all sounds macho and daring, but it's just simple body language.

Then again, that's like saying orbital bombardment is simple physics (which it is, in a horribly mangled grasp of physics).

"Tevos, I'm done here. If I need you again, I'll be back." Aria says coolly, rising from her couch and stepping towards the entrance.

I hastily rise to join her, and make sure to step just barely behind her. Aria doesn't tell us to do so or give any indication she likes that, but I don't want to make her think that I'm getting arrogant. I want to be seen as the servant – no, that's _not _what I want – the advisor for now, so I'll stick to giver her simpler signs.

We step out the door, and Aria sets off immediately, not deigning to give the young secretary any acknowledgement. Why should she? She's the Queen Bitch of the Terminus Systems.

We get outside of the Presidium Tower, but rather than get a hover-taxi or call Grizz for pickup, Aria starts down one of the paths of the Commons, strolling along the metal path like it was just another dingy tunnel on Omega.

Settled into a comfortable silence, I see no reason to speak. Instead, I look around the scenery again, though this time my inspection looks at how the ornate planters of greenery could be used as cover in a staggered advance, or other tactical purposes. The curving lake, for example, could be rigged to conceal some form of extendable missile launcher or other automated defense system. Perhaps a larger mass-effect version of a Bouncing Betty anti-personal mine, to be launched over the concourse and shred any hostiles on it?

Thoughts like that, anyway. But despite the fascinating possibilities present (though hilariously unlikely of working), these are only surface thoughts, requiring little maintenance or focus. My eyes are still sweeping the crowd for threats _and_ for any possible familiar faces, just in case.

"Hey, Nick!" comes a call from behind me.

I turn, spinning on my heel and reflexively dropping a hand to my –

Wait – where's my pistol?

"You stupid idiot," Vasir chuckles, walking up and extending a hand holding my Carnifex. "You didn't check to see if I had your gun before you left."

"Really, Nick?" Aria asks, a tad disbelieving. "Are you _that_ absentminded?"

"Hey, that was after I got mind-raped and clubbed upside the head by an armored psychopath!" I protest as I mag-clamp my Carnifex to my right-side mag-holster. "I was lucky just to remember my damn name!"

"Vasir?" Aria queries in questioning tone, her unspoken question lingering.

"Maybe." Vasir answers, the ghost of a smile on her lips. "After all, _someone_ has to make sure this idiot doesn't get himself killed too quickly."

"Oh, the comedian Spectre is back again," I grumble. "Killed '_too_ quickly', ha ha fucking ha."

Vasir leans in and musses my hair about, amidst my complaints.

"I'll be seeing you, then, Vasir?" I ask in a dejected tone after I managed to break free from her teasing.

"No, you'll be meeting me." Vasir teases. "If you want to start 'seeing' me, you're going to need to man up a little more. After all, no asari worth her ink would be hanging around with a weak boy."

I groan at the implication, bringing my right hand up to my face with gentle pressure. I'd make a dramatic point and smack my own forehead, but I've still got the lingering ache from that armored slap that Vasir gave me earlier.

"Why does _everything _have to be sexual with you damn asari?" I demand, irritated by their constant innuendo. "Seriously, there is _more_ to life than rutting anything with a nervous system!"

Aria and Vasir gave out a couple laughs; Aria's harsh and Vasir's genuinely amused, but neither one gave me an answer.

"Oh well, I suppose I can live without knowing the specific reason." I muse. "It'll save me from having to bleach my brain later."

They laugh again, and I join in.

We break away in our separate directions, Aria and I heading our way and Vasir going hers.

We'd meet up later, away from the prying eyes of the Council and the Broker, back in the safety of the secured stronghold of Afterlife.

* * *

><p>"Don't get too comfortable, Nick, you've got surgery in thirty minutes." Aria said as I get past the door into Aria's citadel suite.<p>

"Huh?" I stumble, confused. "Surgery? But I already got my eyes fixed up, what surgery are you talking about?"

"You didn't _really_ think I'd let you fumble around with a clumsy commercial translator, did you?" Aria says, tinges of a smirk on her lips as we walk through the tasteful but bare walls.

The 'suite' is more like a fortified base, what with it being the only other structure on the same level as Purgatory, the club from the third game. The structure itself isn't accessible by elevator, and you have to walk through a decently nice garden before you can walk up to the front door. The garden appears to give plenty of cover on the approach for attackers, but I wouldn't be surprised if Aria has all the planters rigged with remote/proximity detonation mines and bombs. It'd be just her style, to lead you into believing one thing, then hitting you full force with something outside the box.

The hallway is narrow, without rooms, and leads to an open sitting room, with steps to a slight depression that holds the couches and recliners, of which I recognize Aria's usual couch. The furniture in sitting area is all underneath the floor level, and other than that the room is bare, save for a staircase to an upper balcony. It's bluntly obvious that the entire estate is set as a giant killbox, but at the same time the lack of furniture combines with the understated decoration and other aesthetics to create a structure that encapsulates Aria's character, what makes her _Aria_.

On the inside, the suite is simple, decorated sparsely in ways reminiscent of Afterlife. There's no real style or motif to the interior, nothing like a villain's theme or a rich fool's obsession, instead the few paintings and artwork are of varied styles and tastes. No 'modern' art though, (that is, modern art from Home), merely a few sculptures, a few ceremonial weapons, and a painting here or there, though the crowning jewel in my opinion is what appears to be the original _Dogs Playing Poker_ by Coolidge.

Meandering over to the painting's position just inside the killbox sitting room, I move a little closer so that I can inspect the painting. Like I said, it's the original picture, where one of the dogs is facing three others. I remembered the painting from Home, but with the Council that gains a little new context. The image shows one dog player on one side of the table, facing three other players, with a police dog behind the three sucker dogs. Curiously, standing behind the single player is another dog, holding his cane and his hat, just… observing. Hmmm…

Chuckling internally, I move over to join the others, who're all in the sitting area.

Grizz is sitting in his customary spot on the left hand side of Aria's couch (the right side is reserved for Garka and will later be gifted to Shepard). Liselle's taken up a roost on an asari made chair, the closest human analogue would be one of those Ancient Egyptian lounging couches, while Anto's sitting in a much more simple wooden chair (which, in being wood, was still a luxury item).

"So this surgery is for a translator?" I clarify, eyebrow quirking. "I thought I was getting along fine with just my omni-tool. Granted, the lips not matching up to the ear bud is discomforting, but I don't need this translator. You've got no reason to spend money on me."

Aria just gives me another Look that says 'Idiot.'

"Okay, so maybe you want to get the most out of your investment, I can understand that. What, is the translator implant going to also contain a behavior chip or an explosive?" I snark, not really meaning it.

"Heh. Pay up, turian." Anto grunts in approval. Grumbling, Grizz tosses him a credit chip, which Anto snatches out of the air with a rumble of happiness.

"Really?" I deadpan, somehow not surprised. "You guys are making side-bets on me now?"

"Why not?" Anto challenges. "It passes the time."

"Point." I admit. "So _why_ should I get this translator?"

"Because then you won't need either an omni-tool or a headset to translate other languages. The translator chip won't change your words, but it will render you capable of understanding the other languages. That lip-sync you are complaining about? It'll go away, because you'll actually understand the language." Grizz explains patiently, though his drawl still sounds sarcastic. "It's a long and complicated science, involving a lot of weird linguistics and programming, so I'll spare you the brain damage and use simple words."

Or Grizz's drawl could actually be sarcastic. I flip him off and he waves me off, chuckling a little. All easy camaraderie between co-workers and possibly friends, you know?

That thought strikes me, and I pause my other thoughts, reflecting on the fact that I am now friends with people who I once thought to be nothing but video game NPC's. Ah, the glory of context and another point of view.

The translator sounds like a great idea, but even if Aria doesn't put anything extra into it, it's the surgery itself I'm worried about.

Other than being drugged unconscious, which is already a pet peeve, there's the whole memory loss due to anesthetic. Even if they've got some drug that doesn't make me forget the hours around the surgery, I just _know_ that they're going to use one that does.

Because if the surgery requires one particular drug or another (or can be 'justified' to need the drug), you've got an inhibition-lowering combination. Add in a few other things, and you've got a lovely little cocktail that rarely sees the light of day due to the surgery not needing most of the drugs in the cocktail. But if, say, somebody else wants you to cheerfully ignore your inner paranoia, there's nothing better. It's a disinhibitor, lowering what standards or restrictions you had on yourself; much like alcohol or other drugs.

Combine that cocktail with an experienced talker, somebody who knows how to talk to a person under that influence, and you've got yourself the closest thing we'll ever see to truth serum.

Though to be honest, the words truth serum are only here to scare you, to warn you of the most improbably and dangerous outcome; I use the scariest possibility to remind myself of the dangers, not the realities. The odds of it working like a truth serum you see in the movies is so low that it might work like that on a one in a million chance, compounded further by a further one in a million chance depending on the specific person.

And even _if _(and that's a _gigantic _if) it goes perfectly, you can't just ask them for deep dark secrets, you have to casually wean them into it before they completely go unconscious, and that requires some fast talking. A trained anesthesiologist who knows her craft inside and out is the only real option for that unique little trick, but none of them ever use it because they have no interest in your chatter, unless they happen to be your mother...

That is, after all, the main side-effect: acting drunk. Patients chatter more than they normally would (and given how much I talk already...), grope nurses (less often, but it happens), try to get off the gurney (annoyingly often, from what I'm told by doctors), and even alter their base personality for as long as they are under the effect. Just like how there are angry drunks, sad drunks, happy drunks, and grabby drunks, the simple disinhibitor releases your inhibitions so that you act in those manners, depending on who you are.

As well, I'm told that if you suspect it, it's easy to just shut your mouth and not speak (like how a drunk person can shut up and try to act sober despite being physically drunk), which is why this isn't used in interrogations and why it's not an actual worry.

But for some unsuspecting kid, it's a good to find out little white lies and small secrets, the usual smaller-than-they seem problems any kid has when he grows up. Accidents, behavioral problems, certain fantasies, all that stuff _can_ come out. It's ridiculously unlikely, but am I going to risk my life to a small chance that the drugs won't tell Aria what she needs to know.

That's how my mother found out about my problems at school; she was the anesthesiologist when they took my wisdom teeth out, and suddenly the secrets best left forgotten came to life in the dentists office, to the horror of my mother. For the record, I was _pissed_ when I was told what happened; luckily I haven't had any surgery requiring anesthesia since, and I hope to keep it that way.

Combine that with the fact I was, without a doubt, going to be under anesthesia for this surgery, and now I know Aria's game, if indeed this is her intention. It could be that I'm freaking out over nothing, that I'm overreacting to a simple operation, but in my opinion it's still a risk, no matter if the odds are one to ten or one to a trillion.

Of course...

Well...

...Okay, _fine_, I'm overreacting _massively_, I'll admit it.

This truth-serum talk is my paranoia leaping to heights I'd never touched before. I swear I'm not this crazy normally, it's just that the stress is getting to me. Where I once was reasonable and friendly, exposure to the Council and to the Mass Effect universe have practically made me a conspiracy theorist, or some kind of crazy survivalist that is incapable of trusting others.

I mean, _hell_, I'm talking about a truth-serum like it _actually exists!_ There's no such thing, and I know it.

But even if all the anesthetic does is make me chatter more, I might accidentally mention one of my many secrets just because _I am stupid_ _enough_ to mention it when my inhibitions are gone.

Heh. What does it say about me that I don't even trust myself if I can't directly remember events?

I don't let my distrust reach my eyes, of course, and fortunately I've had a lot of practice at keeping little things like that quiet. Aria's the Queen for a reason, and she might know that I know (if any of this insane conspiracy babble is anywhere near the truth), but I'll try my best to keep her in the dark.

Worse; with this far future stuff, it's entirely possible that they _have_ created a truth serum with their sci-fi tech. My knowledge in this area is limited back to my knowledge from Home, after all.

"Alright," I agree genially, lying through my teeth. "This sounds like a very helpful thing, and I'm good with it. Aria, thanks for getting this set up."

Heh, another thought just occurred to me. Aria's probably going to find out anyway simply because all she has to do is smirk and I suffer another near breakdown due to my own paranoid mind.

...Maybe there's a little dark humor in there, that I can _actually_ find that thought _funny_. Well, there goes any chance of regaining my Zen concentration.

Goodbye, sanity, _helloo_ insane paranoia.

* * *

><p>Hmph.<p>

This is hard to do. To _say_, that is.

I was wrong.

Aria did not, in fact, try to dope me up and pry information out of me (though there's a good chance of some kind of bug or control implant). Before and after the surgery, I was left alone; moreover, the drugs used for the anesthetic did not make me black out, nor did I come anywhere near becoming lightheaded babbly Nick.

After they inserted the futuristic looking I.V., which didn't hurt at all (not that needles are a fear of mine; growing up as the son of a doctor will help get rid of that), the anesthetic was almost instantaneous.

_Maybe_ I'm becoming a little too paranoid, with all that's going on. I could do with some relaxation, instead of bouncing back and forth from catastrophe to catastrophe.

Is that a sign that I'm not capable of defeating the Reapers, or of helping to defeat the Reapers? If such a minor thing freaks me out so much… then what good will I be against the cosmic horrors and mecha-cthulhus?

Nonetheless, all this woolgathering aside, I'm back in Aria's Citadel estate with two new cybernetic implants.

Yes, _two_. The translator, which I got a glance at, was literally the best damn translator available for humans; the little case it had come in was painted a unremarkable black with no identifying marks, but feeling along the case revealed to me two little letters (well, a letter and a number) that told me I was getting an N7 translation implant.

The other little thing I now had in my body was a set of adaptive haptic interfaces for both hands (originally was only to be one, but Aria was fine with changing that to both), so that I don't have to bother with omni-tool gloves or anything similar.

Of course, there is a very large chance that I've been bugged by Aria, perhaps with a listening device or maybe a locator, but I'm not going to worry about that right now. In the wake of my freak-out earlier, I am going to be more Zen about this, in an attempt to return to my old pre-teleportation attitude.

Then again, I was much more Zen back Home because I knew that I didn't have anything to worry about. Here, I have everything to worry about.

Ignoring that useless nonsense, however, the very next thing on my agenda was to convince Aria that I was to be trusted, and to be allowed to make decisions with her assets. In that situation, I wanted to show how I could use those assets efficiently and calmly, and I'll need to appear collected and calm.

Being overly emotional or quick to jump to judgment would not convince her to allow me access to all her materials (especially that information database she keeps, 'cause who _knows _how much good information she's got on there?).

So when I re-enter the sitting room, I don't react visibly when I see Vasir sitting on one of the plush cushions, chatting lightly with Aria and the others.

Vasir, for her part, has changed out of her blue custom Spectre armor, and is clad now in a curious attire that consists of a grey sleeveless jacket over some odd asari… body-glove would be the best term, I suppose. It's not quite skintight, and I'm sure that the dark color of the body-glove is intentional, to give some allure while still allowing for a lower-profile.

The body-glove isn't featureless, though, it's got a large belt that would be considered bulky if it wasn't stylish, as well as some elbow and kneepads that I can only make out because of the slightest difference in size from the rest of the body-glove. I'm sure that there's also some body armor underneath it, and that's definitely a kinetic barrier generator fitted in the padded section by the shoulder blades.

Of course, that's only the technical capabilities. The outfit itself was _nice_, and I'm sure the inherent sexiness of the outfit would distract anyone nearby, that's probably the actual point. The jacket was puffy, but not quite, like someone had brought to life Captain Smoker's jacket and cut the sleeves off. The collar was fur, but it was white fur, and it impossibly looked like the fur collars you'd see in an anime; I guess with an entire galaxy, there'd be _something _that resembled anime-outfits. The body-glove, as I mentioned, is just on the line between skintight and teasingly loose.

It's been – _literally_ – made for people to be distracted by the sexy.

And while the people are distracted by the sexy, she hits them with the sleek Carnifex she's got on her right thigh. Despite the gun only coming off the lines yesterday, I'm sure that she's already got the thing modded and spec'd out, presumably by a 'contact' of hers.

Overall, the look is almost unrealistic (by my standards, admittedly), looking both deadly and sexy equally, in a way that makes her really seem like she had just stepped out of an anime. The white fur collar plays off the purple tattoo and the natural blue skin.

Tela Vasir, for as long as she wears the outfit, does not seem like a real person, like a Council Spectre, but more like a fictional character (oh, the irony…), which I am sure is the intention; just like how Miranda is an incredibly obvious spy, thus nobody thinks she is a spy (or they are to busy staring at her ass, what with the catsuit).

And now I look like an idiot because while I didn't visibly react, I did pause do inspect Vasir's outfit.

Nice going, genius, now you created a visible reaction by trying to _not_ create a visible reaction… idiot.

"So, here on business?" I ask as I slide into my comfortable recliner. "Or are you just here to relax with the Queen of Omega?"

"Business, kid." Vasir answers with a smirk. "I've got an errand to run on Omega, and I figured why not hitch a ride with an old friend?"

_Bullshit, Vasir,_ I think victoriously. There is no way _you_ are good friends with Aria.

And that means…

Oh, _yes_.

Looks like my plans get to accelerate a great deal faster than I thought they would.

See, if Vasir had used her personal ship to fly out to Omega, it would be a lot more suspicious, and it would be easier (well, comparatively), to figure out where she had gone.

On the other hand, if she comes along with us, then it's a lot easier to slips the observation of the Broker, Harper, STG, and the other intelligence agencies. Granted, it's still going to be _very _hard, but Vasir's an agent of the Broker and thusly has enough experience to slip the monitoring.

Once we get out to the Terminus Systems, take one of Aria's ships (one that is designed to be unnoticeable via numerous refits and 'weathering' changes) out of Omega, and then we'll be free. Granted, I've no doubt that the Broker or possibly Harper has a sleeper ship waiting by the Relays, just jotting down who passes through and when, but if we set it up right, we can beat the network, or even co-op the Broker's network if possible.

And if we can get past/through the network, we can have free reign to travel wherever we need.

As I engage in mindless small-talk with Aria and Vasir, my mind is spinning with glee, planning out which planets to bomb, which to land on, which to monitor, which to negotiate with, and which to _burn_.

Grizz joins us, greeting Vasir with a warm welcome, but the slight look to his eyes hints to me that there was some history behind them, although I could simply be overconfident in my ability to read turians, and could thusly be reading the situation completely wrong. But my first presumption is proven correct when Vasir responds with Grizz's name and a similar greeting.

"You two know each other?" I ask, smiling a little when Grizz doesn't immediately tell the stupid human to shut up. He must be slowly warming up to me.

"Grizz was one of students for a year of so." Vasir explains, patting the seat next to her as Grizz comes in to take it. Vasir leans in, _on_ Grizz, and lets out a sigh of satisfaction. Grizz doesn't say anything, but he chuckles and puts his arm up on the spine of the couch, though oddly he doesn't lean one along Vasir's shoulders.

"Ah. So, a little connected, then?" I ask, a little more at ease with asking this question of Vasir.

I'd gotten a small peak at Vasir's mind during the proper meld portion of the mind-rape, and I knew that she coped with Asari longevity by being very relaxed about her relationships, though that didn't make her easy or whorish like some asari were.

"Not quite, boy." Grizz replies, and though there is a little of the annoyance I expected, his tone is fairly nice considering how intruding my question was. "Tela here was my mentor for Spectre-hood, grooming me for the position after I impressed her during a little case that sprang up on one of the newest turian colonies a while back. She was the one who recommended me, but the Council wouldn't let her officiate my test due to 'bias', which didn't stop Saren's sponsor from being the proctor."

"Speaking of which," Vasir continues, turning to look Grizz right in the eyes. "I did a little digging a while back, and found enough dirt on Lucanus – that was Saren's sponsor, Nick – to bring him down. It seems that our dear turian friend had been skipping a few banned things past Citadel customs for a few of his friends."

Grizz seems to purr in pleasure at the news, and leans down to nuzzle the top of Vasir's head.

"You don't know how _good_ it is to hear that, Tela." Grizz informs her, mandibles manipulated into a vicious turian grin. "I'm might be a bareface, but to hear that Lucanus was brought down is good; that he went down for dirty dealings is just the cherry on top."

Huh?

My confusion must have be obvious, because Aria smirks shrewdly and taps the back of her head. I get her meaning quickly, and marvel at the fact that my translator is so advanced that it can translate into my own time period's style and slang.

"Oh, it gets better Grizz." Vasir reveals, her tone _very_ satisfied with herself. "I only got tip-off about him because the idiot was demanding a much bigger cut, from _all_ of his customers. The arrogant fool apparently thought that he was good enough to keep it from my notice."

"Has he had his paint burned off, then?" Grizz demands, needing more information.

"Better. I kneecapped him, then after I shared some intel with the turian in charge of the acid-washing, he agreed to go take a break and let me supervise the acid burning." Vasir tells us, the vindication and revenge in her voice a heady mix. "Unfortunately, I was enjoying it so much that I didn't quite manage to stop the acid in time."

Oh.

_Oh._

…ugh… death by acid? On one hand, at least now I know how the turians designate a bareface (but that still leaves questions about Saren), but on the other… I'm a little sick to hear of an execution like that.

Vasir must have noticed my uneasiness, because she looked towards me.

"The victim is unconscious during the acid-washing, Nick. Even though I was a vengeful teacher getting payback, I'm not a sadist, so Lucanus didn't feel a thing, aside from the double knee-capping."

I nod back at Vasir, more at ease. I don't want to work with a sadist, it'd both cause me a lot of unneeded distraction _and_ it would be a waste of resources after a while.

"Still, when I was picking through Lucanus's file cache, I found something that made me _wish _he had been." Vasir says, her face and tone turning dark.

"What was it?" I ask, curious at what would make the hardened Spectre get angry. Vasir looked up and met my eyes, and I got a good sense of just how _enraged_ she must have been, to have this must anger left over.

"When the Council gave Grizz and Saren their test, the original set of orders mentioned the primary purpose of recovering a valuable Prothean artifact from both of the locations." Vasir explains, looking up at Grizz's face over hers.

"Oh, that _bastard_!" Grizz roars almost instantly as he gets the connection, before continuing into a rash of turian curses that I jot down for later, though almost all of them are foul enough to make me blush despite my unusual upbringing.

"So Lucanus intercepted the transmission and changed it?" I muse, stroking my beard and shaking my head slowly at the horrible meaning that was only known to myself and Vasir. "So if he hadn't… then Saren would have never been a Spectre, and we wouldn't have had to deal with his Reaper obsession."

"Yeah, that would have saved us a _lot_ of trouble." Vasir says heavily, a flash of shared understanding flashing through our eyes.

I look away to try not to look suspicious, but as I look back around the room to the _Dogs Playing Poker_, I see Aria giving me a _look_.

Aw, fuck. I've got enough on my plate averting the apocalypse, I don't need Aria on top of that.

* * *

><p>"You have questions."<p>

Sitting in the leisure space of Aria's corvette, I sit upright on my recliner (I have ben doing that a lot, lately, but I think I deserve it after dealing with Vasir's mind-rape) and give Aria my full attention.

"Really?" Aria deadpans. "No shit, of course I have questions; and you're going to tell me anything and everything that I want to know."

"Wow." I say, rubbing my chin. "I thought that the use of threats was traditional, but you seem to make it work fairly well without them."

"It comes with practice." Vasir informs me, crossing her legs and looking over at Aria.

Aria looks at both of us, united in face of the supposed interrogation of the clueless human, and her eyes narrow again.

"So, what was it?" she asks, gesturing a hand towards Vasir. Her intention is fairly obvious, so I answer it honestly.

"Not much." I admit. "Just a few bits of intelligence, a couple connections to information she was aware of, and then I filled in the blanks and gave a revelation of two. After that, Vasir knew that I wasn't just bullshitting her, and she started to trust me. She also stopped shredding my brain into Swiss cheese, something I'm just a smidge happy about."

"Tell me what you told her, then, and I'll stop the questions."

We're back on Aria's ship, heading out towards Omega via Mass Relay, and Aria's finally decided that it's safe to talk, with all her other people being someplace elsewhere on the ship. I can't help but wonder why we left the Citadel before dealing with the turian and salarian Councilors, but I suppose that is Aria's problem. Now that I've got Vasir on my side, I've gotten all I wanted out of that place, and I'm a little glad to be away from it, if I'm honest.

The lies those people tell themselves, the way they slave away for wages and never think to look up into the sky and _imagine_… it doesn't disgust me, it _scares_ me. That kind of thing would be horrible for me, to be stuck in a boring environment with never-changing surroundings and all the cooler talk in the galaxy – oh, and the imminent threat of annihilation and extermination is just the cherry on top.

"Uh, basically…" I stumble a little, thinking on what to say and how to say it. "You recall Commander Shepard, the human that the Council made into a Spectre?"

"I remember hearing about her getting spaced above Alchera a month or so ago." Aria replies, leaning further back against her couch.

"Yeah, she's been spaced." I agree, deliberately not saying she was gone, before continuing. "But before her ship got destroyed, she made a couple claims that the Council didn't agree with. Namely, that the so-called 'Geth Dreadnought' that attacked the Citadel was actually a Reaper, one of the immortal sentient starships that wait in deep space between the galaxies."

"Were the airquotes _really_ necessary, Nick?" Arai asks, her tone slightly annoyed.

"It's tradition, Aria." I admit, a wistful grin ghosting over my face. "But as hilariously stupid and weird as that theory sounds, it's _actually_ true. A Prothean Beacon flash-downloaded its contents into her brain, and during her hunt for Saren she found numerous other bits of evidence, such as the Prothean facility on Ilos, and a couple other things, like the minor thing of the _Reaper itself_ talking to her. It called itself Sovereign, and it gave the usual evil villain lecture about how we were all dust in the cosmic wind, lesser beings that could not comprehend its majesty, et cetera, and ad infinitum."

Aria tilts her head back and thinks about this for a few minutes, giving no sign of her opinion.

Vasir and I glance over at each other; she tilts her head, and I shrug. Whatever Aria's thinking about, this is the crucial moment. This spot right here makes or breaks my efforts to prepare for the Reapers.

"Continue." Aria directs, her voice calm and un-indicative of her inner thoughts.

"Uh… right, so after Shepard tells the Council what Sovereign was, she gets assigned to patrol the Terminus Systems for lingering Geth presence, which was a pretty obvious reassignment to Antarctica."

"What?" Vasir asks, brow furrowing in confusion.

"Oh, uh, sorry. Being reassigned to Antarctica means you got shuffled away from the public eye as a punishment. So the Council leaned on the Alliance to keep her out of sight so that Shepard didn't inspire people to start asking hard questions."

"That's business as normal, Nick." Aria dismisses. "That doesn't mean the Shepard was right."

"No, the fact she got attacked meant she was right." I rebut smoothly. "Think about it; the _Normandy_ had a bleeding-edge stealth system, which the survivors have reported _was active _when they were attacked. That stealth system let them sneak up on every enemy in this galaxy, yet another ship can knowingly ghost up to them and then blow through the shields and hull with one shot?"

"You have a point." Aria says, sitting up a little as her eyes focus on mine. "But you've also got more intel stashed away, so tell me _everything_."

"Well, aside from the super-ship's sensors and engines, how about the fact that the Normandy was destroyed via a particle beam?" I counter, smirk sliding into place.

"You can't know that," Aria denies, a short frown taking precedence on her blue features and wrinkling the tattoo linking her 'eyebrows'.

"Granted, no one has found the wreckage of the _Normandy_ yet in the environmental hell-hole of Alchera," I concede. "But none the less, the crew of the _Normandy_ said that the ship was struck by a bright yellow light, different from a GARDIAN laser battery. Based on some Prothean tech and a little research on Sovereign's debris, we know that the Reapers used molten metal transmitted at a significant fraction of _c_, which crushes kinetic barriers like an ant beneath a boot."

"That's not a particle beam." Aria says, eyes narrowing dangerously again.

"Exactly," I say with a fake grin; shit, I didn't want to mention the Collectors being Protheans, but otherwise Aria's trust will snap and she'll gut me like a dog. "But while the Reapers use their own weapons, the _Protheans_ preferred to use particle beams such as the ones that the attacking vessel used to destroy the _Normandy_."

"You mean to imply that not only are some Protheans still alive, but that they attacked the _Normandy_ to silence Shepard?" Aria sneers, her arrogance back; which means her trust in me is starting to wear out. "Did you actually listen to yourself when you said that? Even a _vorcha _would know that you're bullshitting me."

"No, not quite, Aria." I respond, laying back against my recliner and propping my feet up on the coffee table before me. "Remember our talk about the Collectors, back when I first came into your service? Remember how I said that the Collectors wanted flesh and genetics? _Why_ do you think the Collectors wanted genetics, for their little dollies? No, the Collectors wanted different species and varied genetics so that they can adapt their indoctrination tech for each species in the galaxy."

"Did you ever hear about the robotic human-slaves that the 'Geth' supposedly used when they fought for Saren?" Vasir joins in on the conversation, matching gaze with her fellow asari. "Why do you think the Protheans vanished, and what do you think the Reapers did with all survivors?"

Aria's mask of cold indifference slips at that, though it comes back up almost instantly it is down long enough for even me to notice. That was a big psychological tell; maybe even Aria fears such a fate?

It's a brief glimpse of mortality from such an untouchable figure, and I'm not entirely comfortable with seeing it from my boss (even though I'm trying to manipulate her).

"Waste not want not, eh?" I mutter grimly, though my projection carries my tone across to the others. "The term Shepard used was 'Husks', because the slaves were mere husks of their former sentient nature. Nothing more than biomass and Reaper cybernetics, they aren't human in anything other than outline. It's not the first time the Reapers have used that trick, and they use more than just the bodies of the civilizations they conquer. I managed to get ahold of the footage from Shepard's combat recorders as well as a few Prothean records, combined the two with some simple deduction, and the true nature of the 'Collectors' came to light."

"So how did you get Vasir in on this mess?" Aria asks, back to business though her tone is a little looser, more friendly than the cold detachment of her 'business' persona.

"It was simple, really," I explain. "Vasir saw the records through my memories, saw how my conclusions were the right ones, and agreed with Shepard's – with my – conclusion. Going through less than legal means to help the galaxy is nothing to an experienced Spectre, and lucky for me Vasir agreed to help out. Of course, I'm still pissed off about the whole 'shred his mind and dispose of him' attitude that she had at the start."

"That's helpful," Aria drawls, her gaze sharp on mine. "But what I meant was how you got Vasir to act as a partner; instead of simply disposing of you and acting on the memories alone. After all, why trust a young human when you could rely solely on yourself?"

Shit. Uh… I've got no answer for that. Last resort, pass the buck to the experienced one here.

"I'll be honest, I'm not so sure why she didn't; that particular thought might have passed through my head while she was mind-raping me. I suppose you'd have to ask her." I shrug, blatantly passing the responsibility to Vasir.

"Oh, then why did _you_ decide do that, Tela?" Aria inquires, her tone back to its chilly seriousness at the Spectre's actions.

"Because the boy isn't a total loss, and it's been a while since I had a student." Vasir shrugs. "My last one was Grizz, and that whole affair left me uninterested in students for a while, but I think I can do some good by helping this human learn the ways of the galaxy."

"That's shit." Aria says, piercing Vasir's bluff. "Parts of it might be true, but the story about 'finding' Shepard's combat recorders are nothing more than weak little lies. You're trying to cover Nick's illogical and made-up story, to keep me from finding out the truth, but I'm not buying it."

Tense and uncomfortable, I shift uneasily in my seat as my carefully engineered story falls apart to Aria's shrewd experience.

"Is it?" Vasir challenges, her controlled face still smooth and unworried. "Maybe you just need time to understand what I'm saying."

"No, Vasir, I don't think I do." Aria snaps, a slim blue finger depressing a button.

Vasir and I tense, but there's nothing we can do as gun-turrets pop out of their hiding spaces flush with the bulkheads of the ship. There's too many to try to dodge or take them out, and I _really _don't like how large they are; with my luck they're probably armor-piercing sniper rounds that would shred me with or without armor.

"So, how's about you come clean _right now_, or I get a little annoyed?" Aria requests, her calm and serene tone completely contrasting with the obvious anger she's feeling.

I gulp, and my body goes very cold, spine shivering and goosebumps forming as adrenaline floods my system.

"Fine." I grunt, my gaze dropping to the floor. "It's a long story, and you're not going to believe most of it. It's going to be a hard thing to accept and I doubt it's going to be easy… but I'll tell you, because I don't want to die."

I look up and Aria's hard stare meets my meek gaze.

"Or," suggests Vasir, bringing up a hand to her chin in thought. "We can do this the fun way. Who's up for a meld?"

* * *

><p>No predictions for this chappie, but it doesn't exactly contain any massive, huge changes.<p>

I_ am_ confident, though, that if anyone saw _this_ happening, they didn't think it'd happen so quickly.

Omake 4, **Xeno Major's Prediction Goes Awry**, or **How Writing this 'Fic goes, _every time_.** (Mercsenary)

Original Line (by me):

I prefer to think of it more as "I'm trying to write an awesome SI 'fic, and Realism keeps busting down my door and smacking me upside the head."

**Response by Mercesenary follows as such:**

Xenomajor: Gonna be an awesome SI! Gonna save the galaxy! WHOO!

*KNOCK KNOCK*

Xenomajor goes to his door: Huh?

Opens the door.

Realism is there.

Realism punches him in the face.

Realism: DID SOMEONE ORDER UP SOME PSYCHIC TRAUMA AND PARANOIA?

Or OR!

Realism: HONEY!

IM HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOME!

Omake 5, **Xeno Major the Gigolo**, or **How I became _The_ Asari Man-Slave **(Original idea by Carrnage, written by Mercsenary)

**Carrnage**: Hey I just realized something the best way to prepare would be if all the Asari Matriarchs supported you, thus there is only one course of action you must mind meld with the most powerful and influential Asari in the galaxy... For the good of the galaxy of course.

Response by Mercsenary is as follows:

"NO. I am not a gigolo. Gigolos get paid..."

"Oh come on, this will the fastest way and it'll be fun."

"... Fine but I want monetary compensation."

"I thought you said you weren't a gigolo?"

"I did. Gigolos _also_ get paid."


	7. Chapter 7

**12:45, Presidium Time**

**September 11th, 2183**

**Aria's Ship, en route to Omega**

Melding with one asari can be a good or a bad experience.

Me, for example… well, I now had a fear of the potential mind-rape that comes along with said asari melding. I would not be surprised if I ended up with some minor form of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder due to the horror of having your mind suspended and open to an entity that could mulch your grey matter if she got annoyed.

I'll give a more… easy to understand example; how about rock climbing? I _love_ rock-climbing, it's awesome to scamper up the rock and _conquer_ a rock face. But at the same time, I _hate_ rock-climbing. I hate the feeling of not knowing if the rope is taut and supporting or if you'll plummet to the ground and go all Humpty-Dumpty. I make for a horrible climbing buddy, because I worry _so much_ about such a simple thing; while I know that I will slowly grow accustomed to the ropes, it is _not_ an easy process.

With that in mind, try to imagine my mental state after I come mind-numbingly close (no pun intended) to having my consciousness shredded by an asari.

I was freaking out and shivering internally for a while afterwards; being surrounded by three _very_ powerful asari immediately after that occurrence was _not_ my idea of a good recovery period.

And now I was getting into a threesome with two asari that are both entirely capable of crushing me into pulp and disposing the body as if they did this _daily_.

Yeah.

Not my idea of a good vacation, this whole mess.

I mean, sure, any other male (from this time period, and probably a fair few from Home) would _kill_ to be in this position right now.

Ah, it's typical of me to be annoyed to get what is popular culture's supposed 'Man's Paradise.' I don't agree with the common perception of that paradise as the ultimate reward/goal/accomplishment, and then I go and earn it anyway.

First I get stuck in a galaxy that is going to be exterminated in two years, and the corpses of every living being will become either a robo-zombie or a mecha-cthulhu that has no sentience or free will, and _then_ I realize I can't tell the truth without getting thrown into an insane asylum.

Then I get attacked by a bunch of gun-toting batarians, join a warlord Queen of a pirate/smuggler/Blade Runner mining space station.

And after _that,_ I get thrown into a wall and knocked out, before being interrogated via being mind-raped by a sexy middle-aged renegade cthulhoid Spectre (who has more power than all of Home with her connections) and came _way too close _to having my mind stripped bare in a fashion more violating than the most traumatic rape.

And now, I am going to be mind-raped by _**two**_ sexy middle-aged cthulhoid alien women with more power than my entire_ world_ back Home.

So yeah, not my idea of a good vacation.

So when Aria and Tela Vasir link arms and their eyes roll back, I shiver. When their arms reach out to snag me into the third member of their mind-meld (no physical copulation required, or so they said), I gulp and start swearing under my breath.

"Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-" I mutter over and over again in a mantra of survival, as the two pairs of _**scary as fuck**_ _**pitch black eyes**_ look at me and mutter "Embrace Eternity" in stereo.

My brain racing at top speed, the concepts and images of my internal conversation fly faster than Aria's and Vasir's arms can stretch. The literal words are only because I haven't managed to come up with a way to transfer thoughts through touch yet (I'd need Javik to even _begin _developing a way to do that), so the words are simply my way of trying to remember what was communicated; albeit in a much lesser form.

A thought occurs to me as the black eyes loom in my view, and lithe blue hands remove my shirt (no physical copulation required _my ass_, Vasir).

_Perhaps you could simply lay back and enjoy this. Perhaps you might not find it inconceivable that having mind-sex with _two _smoking hot asari is a _good_ thing._

I would agree, I argue with the voice in my head (which seems to keep taking holidays…), except for the fact that _I'm not enjoying this in the slightest._

_Lay back and think of England, then._

Oh God… I lament, the last thought before the embracing arms of the melding asari take me.

The voice in my head is _mocking_ me; what_ has_ this world come to?

* * *

><p>"I wasn't expecting that." Aria reflects as she lays her head along my bare chest. Vasir chuckles and traces a line on Aria's exposed stomach (the corset had come off, but the coat stayed on) with a fingertip.<p>

I twitch, but as much as I want to remove her tentacle-head from my chest, I'd rather not offend her. But still… the _tentacles_ pressing down on my skin is a sensation that I am not familiar with.

Oh God, they're _moving!_

I jolt in surprise, and Aria joins in with Vasir's mirth. I would move away, but I already thought that process out and it doesn't end well.

Luckily for my already damaged mind, they hadn't actually required physical copulation of the human variety, so at least my pants stayed on. If they _hadn't _stayed on, well… then I'd probably be a babbling idiot right now, finally driven over the edge of sanity by two hot asari. Mind you, that might be one of the better ways to die.

Hmm… with my mind running more or less on sex-drive (despite the lack of physical copulation) I was much more relaxed and easy with the idea of two sexy women (alien or not) on my lap.

Of course, chimes the dark corner of my mind, I didn't feel this way after I melded with Vasir, so it might be one of them tweaking the pleasure centers of my brain. Or it could not be.

Screw it, my inhibitions are pretty much gone by this point in time, so let's ask.

"Vasir, did you mess with my paranoia or tweak my mind to feel more pleasure?" I ask, tilting my head back from where I lay so that I can glance up at Vasir, who's reclining in Aria's usual spot on the couch, reaching over to us with her arms.

"Maybe." Vasir smirks.

"Let's be honest, you needed it." Aria drawls. "You were too tense and uptight; you needed to relax, and melding alone wasn't going to accomplish it. Besides, it's no different than taking an anti-depressant, right?"

"I don't take anti-depressants." I argue, but I can't stop smiling. Perhaps they're right, I concede with a sigh.

"We might make you." Vasir says, her voice a little far-off and contemplative. "You're not used to the stress of trying to balance this weight, so you're going to need _something_ to release it; and while this was nice, I'm not giving you pity-sex every few weeks."

"_Damn_." I swear theatrically in a melodramatic British accent. "There goes my hope of being mentally savaged every time I came to my wits."

"You'll crumble." Aria mentions, almost off-handedly. "You aren't used to that much stress. Blackmailing the leader of a species, stopping the Collectors, fighting the Reapers… you've never dealt with anything like that."

"…No." I admit, voice going soft as the magnitude of my self-appointed task hits me once more. "But I have to _try._"

"No, you don't." Vasir contradicts, making me look at her in confusion. "Isn't that one of your human quotes? 'Do or do not, there is no try', right? Commit to action with everything you have, every weapon you've got. If you hold anything back, you don't have a chance."

"Which is why you need anti-depressants if you keep up this pathetic coward act." Aria concludes, sitting up and looking right into my shaky eyes. "We need you serious and functioning, not whiney and _useless_. Grow a spine, _boy_, or we'll start with the meds."

"…Alright." I murmur, snagging my discarded crew top and pulling it back on.

The ship's interior is pretty well-lit, and the color of the walls and furniture create a bright setting; as if to contrast with Afterlife's dark walls and flame motif. To complete the image, Vasir and Aria's outfits are both a mix of dark and light, their coats and other garments – well, not blending in, but not standing out starkly from the sitting room's feel.

Me, on the other hand… dark brown pants climbing pants, a black sleeveless shirt with two stripes (one of white, one of gold), and my own dark hair and beard… I don't quite fit in with the sci-fi décor around here. Perhaps that's a good metaphor for my existence in this universe, being bluntly different from everyone else.

Okay, I'm getting far too analytical. Everyone is _not_ Jesus in Purgatory, and all that. I can't afford to get all philosophical right now.

"Damnit, Vasir, you overdid that… whatever-you-did to my brain." I say, scowling. "Now my brain feels loopy and spacey, but not _drunk_ spacey."

"Oh, that happens sometimes." Vasir confirms cheerily. "It's nothing to worry about, there's no _real_ side effects from too much happiness."

"Great." I groan, lying back down on the floor as Aria tugs on her corset and begins clipping it tight with Vasir's help. "You drugged me with happiness. You drugged me with pure, naturally occurring, with no chemicals or injections or inhalants, _happiness_."

I pause, as both of the asari look at me, Vasir with a curious look and Aria with a straight face and an arched eyebrow.

"Your point?" Vasir asks, showing off her Aria imitation (is it a good or a bad thing that I immediately connected that with Aria?).

"Can you like, _bottle_ that feeling? Maybe replicate it, or something? Not for selling or for drugs or anything, just so that I don't have to go through this whole thing again."

At this, they laugh again.

"You may be the only human in the galaxy who is trying to _avoid_ melding with an asari." Aria states, chuckling. "I don't know if I find that interesting or sad."

I shrug, putting my hands behind my head and laying back on the metal deck of the ship.

Ooh, that feels _good_ for my tense back muscles. Quickly, I toss off my shirt and lay back down, enjoying the sensation on my extraordinarily tense back muscles.

Wait, why are my _back_ muscles tense? They haven't been this sore and tight since I was still in rowing.

"Well," I start wistfully. "A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do."

A gasp sounds loudly in the split-second of silence immediately after I say that.

"_**Mother?!**_**"**

Ah yes, just what I was missing.

"Howdy, Liselle." I deadpan, looking up from where Liselle is standing in the now open doorway, jaw agape at the scene of me lying shirtless on the floor, looking up while Vasir helps Aria put her corset back on.

I shrug again. Well, at least now I don't have to put any effort into stopping Liselle from getting in my pants; I really didn't want to explain to Aria why I boinked her daughter, even before the whole 'asari mind-rape PTSD' thing.

"_**Nick?! **__Explain!_"

"What could I _possibly_ say that would make this any better?" I ask rhetorically, resigned to the situation and channelling my inner Jack O'Neill.

* * *

><p>Let's just say that Liselle was dismayed, and leave it at that.<p>

Aria was her usual nonchalant self, and if it wasn't for her indifferent manner, I would have said that the roles of parent and child had reversed, but alas this is _Aria_ we are talking about here, so she keeps her calm flawlessly while Liselle freaks out. I'd put my shirt back on in case Liselle decided to rip in half or something stupid (I don't know, I'm not qualified for dealing with raging women), and it didn't look like she was going to calm down anytime soon.

Vasir definitely wasn't helping things; laughing uproariously as she was.

But Aria is Aria, and all she needed to do was casually glance over at Liselle and say a few words.

"Do we need to talk about that turian again?" Aria questions; anyone else would have given it a sinister emphasis, but Aria simply asks the question plain and simple, and Liselle shuts up immediately, blushing a deeper blue. Turning on her heel, she flees the room in a huff, apparently dismayed that her own mother melded with the guy she was aiming for.

"…Turian?" I inquire curiously, sidling back over to my (and it _is_ 'mine' by now) recliner, sighing in relief as I lay back on the soft leather.

"Just the son of some general." Aria dismisses without a care. "Liselle was very attached; almost like she hadn't heard of casual sex. It was funny for a while."

"Wow." I say, a little surprised.

"What, surprising that she found a man and got clingy?" Aria deadpans (which she's been doing a lot more of lately, I notice).

"No," I reply, slower. "Just a little surprised that her _mother_ is mocking her about it. Mine would have never done that. Species difference?"

"Something like that." Vasir answers, stretching cat-like across the right side of Aria's Couch (yes, it warrants a capital letter). "Because we live so long and are so concerned with reproduction, asari tend to be more… loose with their parenting. It's probably part of the reason you see so many young asari working as strippers; to try to get back at their parents."

"And then they're somehow surprised to learn that their parents did the same thing when they were Maidens." Aria says derisively. "The thought that it could just be a cycle never occurred to them."

"Yeah." I grunt, her word choice bringing back my big problem again. "We'll have to do something about that cycle."

"Hmh." Aria still doesn't sound convinced, though she depresses another button on her panel of joy; luckily it turns out to deploy all of the emergency bulkheads, so as to keep any eavesdroppers out. "I don't fully believe this, evidence or not."

"Well," I sigh, having half-expected this. "At least you're honest. You'll have your proof, though, when the Collectors pop out of the Omega-4 relay."

"Oh, I don't need proof." Aria responds coolly. "If you are wrong, then I still get to the reap the benefits of this relationship with Vasir. I may have my connections, but a Spectre that's willing to work with me is a rare prize, and not one I'm willing to squander."

"Oh, but of course, Aria." I drawl sardonically. "Really, though, I wouldn't have expected anything else."

"Actually," I continue, stroking my beard and looking up at the ceiling as if in thought. "That's probably what I would do if our positions were to be switched."

"It's one thing to say that, and another to think of it on your own." Vasir points out.

"_So_," I say a tad loudly, ignoring Vasir's very good point and clearing my throat. "What are our priorities here?"

It's a bit of a test, that question, for both them and me. To see if they agreed with what I had already planned out, and if they didn't, _why_. This was my way of seeing if I was capable of planning at their level or not, to see if I was just a source of intelligence or a full Player in the Great Game.

"Eden Prime should be priority one." Vasir expresses her opinion, and I quirk an eyebrow at the choice.

"No." Aria disagrees, shaking her head. "We'd need to find the pod before we could retrieve him, and even then we need the Cipher."

"But the technological advantages of Prothean weaponry and designs could help turn the tide against the Reapers." Vasir argues.

"Heh." I chuckle, causing both of the asari to look up at my interruption. "That won't help."

"And why not, Nick?" Vasir asks, though her voice isn't one of somebody learning wisdom.

She's made up her mind on Eden Prime, and she'll fight us every step of the way for that to be our target. I'm going to have to defuse this situation carefully; otherwise we could lose her support, which would _severely_ restrict us.

"I'm going to need to explain something here, so please don't interrupt me, okay?" I request, getting up from my recliner to explain my point. I've always argued and ranted better when standing or pacing.

"When I was Home, away from all of this, I studied things. I didn't study psychology or physics or anything you'd find in a normal school, at least during my time, but instead I studied other things, whatever caught my interest. I came up with a saying, and though the terms are probably being used wrongly, I think it fits. It was that 'there are three orders of proficiency; these being Civilian, Professional, and Hobbyist.'

"Now, when I say 'Civilian' I mean somebody who has _no_ experience in the matter, somebody who has never been exposed to it. The 'Professional' relates to somebody studying their subject enough to make a living doing it, whatever_ it_ is. Finally, the 'Hobbyist' is somebody who _lives and breathes_ their subject. The Hobbyist is the most complex of these, because it's hard for most people to grasp. A Hobbyist is devoted to their subject, no matter _what_ _it is_, be it model train sets or nuclear bombs.

"There was a professor at Stanford University back Home by the name of Paul Kruger; he taught nuclear explosion theory for a good thirty years. At one point, there was a scandal in the newspapers when a graduate student revealed he had the knowledge to build a nuclear bomb. When they asked Kruger, he said that if the student _didn't_ know how to build a nuclear bomb, they wouldn't pass his class.

"Now, if that's just a student, imagine what_ Kruger_ knew. Granted, technology marches on and all that jazz, but _that's_ the epitome of a Hobbyist. Nuclear explosions were the driving force of his mind, this was a guy once told the President of the United States that he could have created the Panama Canal in a _hour_ with a few shaped nuclear bombs."

"Not that I don't _appreciate_ another chance to hear you chatter," Aria says, her eyes narrowed (presumably) at my inane prattle. "But am I correct in assuming that there is a point buried somewhere in your inane rambling?"

"But of course, Aria!" I reply jovially with a broad and welcoming grin, pointing my hands towards my chest. "I am a Hobbyist. My focus, the love of my life, is the study of _winning._ I'm nowhere near the tactical level of a lieutenant, much less a general, but I have studied enough tactics to understand the tenets, the _language_, so to speak, of tactics. While I may never be anywhere near becoming a qualified military leader or tactician, I understand enough tactics to play the Great Game. Similarly, I study whatever I need to so that I can make a list. In this case, the List was on the greatest armies; _ever_. Specifically, the greatest armies in terms of recruitment, reinforcement, and logistical replenishment, since logistics was the biggest deciding factor."

"What about troop quality? Ship capability? What about Spectres or weapons advancements?" Vasir takes the counterpoint, though I can tell she's only doing it so that she can hear my response. Or that could be my arrogance speaking up again.

"Irrelevant!" I dismiss, flinging an arm to the side to emphasize my point. "Ships and weapons can be captured and reverse engineered, Spectres can't beat whole armies when confronted directly, and troop quality can only go so far because the technology gap is almost _never _massive enough to dramatically change things; while the Reapers have an undeniable superiority in naval combat, their ground troops primary advantage isn't their combat skills, it's their numbers. The Reapers convert any available biomass into more husks; you _saw_ how they turned a couple turians and krogan into a Brute despite the levo/dextro incompatibility."

"Yes, you managed to suck up to the enemy and discourage us, this is a _great_ help." Aria retorted sarcastically.

"_You aren't letting me finish_!" I bark, agitated by the constant interruptions. "That's the thing; the Reapers have effectively created a ground force of _zombies._ Their ground forces, no matter the cybernetics, are effectively zombies, which humans have debated and discussed for years. The primary advantage is that you can use most biomass for it; though apparently it has to be an organic animal of a certain size. Hell, even the Reapers themselves are basically a ground up organic slurry that is stripped of morality and turned into a machine.

"Now, I'm a Hobbyist that studied a lot of various shit so that I could analyze the ways that armies got 'recruits', for lack of a better word. The Reapers file under the third ranked item on the List, which was to convert the enemy dead and civilians into your soldiers, because your enemy has to have an enormous kill/death ratio combined with a technological level that renders _your_ dead into mulch, otherwise you could just pull up your casualties and use them _again_."

"…What's the first item on that list?" Aria asks cautiously, perhaps starting to understand the underlying concept that I'm trying to explain here.

The lesson I'm trying to impart is that** With enough study, with enough applied taxonomy, you can unravel and understand _anything_.** Or, to use the motto that the folks at the SpaceBattles Forums created for the X-Com Science Division: "If it exists, it can be touched. If it can be touched, it can be felt. If it can be felt, it can be understood. If it can be understood, it's our bitch."

"The first item on the list was an army that creates, or 'recruits' for familiarity's sake, it's troops out of raw matter, assembling individual protons neutrons and electrons into whatever element that desire to create the perfect troops. An army like that would be the most resource-efficient, and would be capable of creating the most troops out of any other idea except from my banned list."

"Banned list?" Aria asks, curious about what _I_ would deem banned.

"There's a flaw with that-" Vasir says at the exact same time, blending both of their voices together.

Vasir cuts her sentence off and gestures for Aria to go first.

"What do you mean, a _banned _list? If this is supposed to be a comprehensive study of everything, then why did you create another list?" Aria interrogates, pointing out what she deems to be a flaw.

"Well, I made the banned list so that I wouldn't take forever to make the first list." I shrug, scratching my neck. "The banned list is stuff that would break the game, so to speak; things like using time-travel in a stable time-loop to send your army back in time to help yourself win in the first place, you know, the kind of bullshit that _can't _happen in real life. Keep in mind, even cloning is on the normal list, because it's possible. The banned list is all the things that I thought were either hilariously improbable or that I knew would take me a decade of study to properly understand. I mean, using _time-travel_ as a method of _recruitment_, it's _not going to happen_."

"Alright, then." Aria nods, having found my explanation acceptable. "What's your complaint, Tela?"

"Nick, you can't be serious about this stuff, there's a basic flaw in it." Vasir starts lecturing, her confidant tone giving me the impression of a teacher; meaning she thought she knew for a fact something was wrong. "This model doesn't include a _time-frame_. The Reapers can convert a corpse into a husk in a few days at the slowest, it takes us eighteen years to replace a war casualty; or three, if you use vorcha as ground troops. Simply put, the use of a nano-forge or a raw matter assembly plant could take a day to make a unit or it could take a _year_. How many troops _how fast_ is what the point of logistics is."

"You've got a point," I answer, already having a response prepared. "But I thought about that and tried to take it into account. See, the Reapers need a supply of biomass so that they can create their husks; if they allow us to whittle away their ground forces with death of a thousand cuts, then they don't have the corpses of _our_ troops to convert into more of _their_ troops. Similarly, an army could be laying in wait for years, even centuries, if they did a good enough job at keeping you from discovering the troop buildup; just like how you could use diversionary raids and other tricks to keep an enemy occupied. And how about how many factories were there building these troops? The matter-assembly method took first because you could create a factory or a bomb with the same step as you did to make a trooper, whereas the other methods have to used dedicated tools to make their factories."

"I still don't see how this helps us." Aria says, folding her arms. "You're correct in saying that we can't out number the Reapers, but what do you propose that we do, demolish families and society to increase the speed of our recruitment? That's not going to work, unless you – _the Geth._"

For the first time, I have the rare privilege of seeing Aria forced silent by something. I smile broadly, as Vasir connects my previous rants to this one.

"The Geth took number two on your list, didn't they?" Vasir demands, starting to grin as well.

"Not the Geth specifically, but Von Neumann machines did. They only need materials, and while the right materials can just as hard to acquire as biomass, the primary advantage is the whole 'one robot builds a second, two build two, four build four, and so on. Sixteen 'bots build a factory that builds bots, then it _just keeps escalating._ Once you get the avalanche started, it's _**very **_hard to stop it."

Aria, the only member of the trio not grinning like a madman, merely shakes her head.

"So _that's_ why you were so crazy about the Geth." she says. She tries to make it sound dismissive, but I could swear I detect a hint of …pride? No, maybe it's happiness?

Aria's happy that I had a plan?

No…

Aria's happy that she made a good choice in hiring me.

_Well_, I reflect as I plop back down in my recliner, _I'm happy about that too._

"Now that we've got that sorted out," I draw out, looking both Aria and Vasir in the eye. "What's next?"

* * *

><p>When we step out the airlock to Omega, it's the same group that left. Vasir will be entering Afterlife through one of Aria's other ways, so as to avoid tipping off anybody who might be keeping surveillance on us. She'll meet with us later in the secured section of Afterlife, where we knew there weren't any bugs.<p>

Of course, there's a fair bit of tension as Liselle keeps shooting what she no doubt thinks are subtle glances at me, though they're hilariously obvious to everyone present. Grizz, for his part, ignores them with professional distaste, while Anto quirked an eyebrow (where his eyebrow would _be_, anyway,) in a curious case of picking up human mannerisms from me.

Though I can't see Aria because she's ahead of me, of course, she's got a slight smirk on her face the whole time, amused by the situation.

Omega, for it's part, only welcomes us back whoever happened to be nearby at the time. The major players will be by later to pay their respect or to exchange witticisms, but for right now the crowd is just the people who happen to be within shouting distance of the airlock.

The krogan bouncer keeping the line under control nods to Aria as she passes by, and even the most unruly person in the line moves away out of fear or respect. The mood in the air is curious, like some variation of having the boss walk into the room when you're slacking off; everyone seems tense and yet reassured, in the ways that they stand and the ways that they act.

"It's good to be back." Aria declares as she strolls into the flashing neon lights and dark gyrating masses of Afterlife. The crowd gives way before her, some cheering and some just watching in awe at actually _seeing_ Aria this close. They clear a little path for her, and those with drinks raise them in a toast while those with weapons make it obvious that their hands are away from their guns.

It's such a unique feeling, to be a part of that crowd when Aria returns. The distrust and paranoia merges with respect and recognition to create a palpable sensation, one that everyone reacts to. I'd imagine that this is similar to standing in a room full of mercs when Zaeed walks in.

There's no question, no challenge in this simple statement of power. It is simply Aria returning home to Afterlife, nothing more and nothing less. The fact that there is such a reaction to such an ordinary thing…

The floor is packed tonight, and the customers seem to be paying very nicely, given how my turian bartender friend is grinning as he chats with another drunk human; he doesn't like humans, especially drunk ones. The artificial flames dance and writhe while the asari strippers match the tempo of the flames and the pulsing music.

The heat ramps up with the mass of bodies, and I pull off my training pullover, shoving it in my bag along with my sunglasses.

Ascending the stairs to her private booth like a returning goddess, Aria strides up to her Couch and acknowledges Garka with a nod. All eyes in the club are on her as she looks out over the upper floor of Afterlife, scanning the crowd like a Queen would view her courtiers. She nods once more and sits down, and the crowd cheers once more, as the vid-screens flash: '**This round is on the House.'**

I slip through the crowd, squeezing past batarians and gently pushing through asari to get back to one of the bartenders, my aforementioned turian comrade. He wasn't a friend, because as I'd mentioned before, he didn't like humans. However, he was strictly professional, and as such I'd never had any problems with him. As well, I think he was tainted by his limited interactions with humans; the only ones he talked to wanted to get drunk and find an asari stripper, so he didn't exactly have the greatest impression of human values and character. Since I'm (comparatively) a nicer guy who has a habit of making friends with the unlikeliest of people, I'm sure that I'm slowly breaking down that prejudice.

Really, I'd say something about needing as many allies as I can get, but I've got to be honest; I just like making good friends. It's engaging to see the many ways that a person can turn out, almost like studying a character for a story like I was back Home, away from this madness of extermination and cycles.

Heh. Though I am stuck in another universe, lost and mostly alone, I can't stop being a writer, being a storyteller. I'd say that it was the fundamental _me_, to study and learn stories and tales to break them down and understand them, but that would be so basic that it would be insulting.

"Nick. Working or passing through?" the bartender asks, leaning easily on the bar and watching the crowd rather than looking at me. Nothing but business, as I said earlier, though I do notice that his speech sounds much more natural now that the implant is translating it in my mind instead of through an earbud.

"Passing through, but I'll be back up for my shift after I drop my stuff off and get a quick shower in." I reply, giving him a respectful nod.

The turian nods, and starting reaching for bottles as a scarred batarian in Blue Suns armor gives him a signal.

Wasting no time, I move over to the side of the bar and wave my omni-tool in front of the scanner. The scanner bleeps reassuringly, and a small section of the bar slides away for a second, letting me enter. I turn my body sideways to move past the bartender as he moves to and fro, grabbing bottles and glasses and everything in between. On the other side of the bar, there's a door in the wall with another blinking scanner. I repeat the process, then move through again, making sure to pull the door shut firmly before opening the second security door just past that.

The guard on duty turns out to be Gavorn, who looks up in surprise at the noise, before grinning a savage-looking turian plate-grin and waving me through. Not exactly in line with the normal procedures, but since I'm still me, I don't really mind.

The hallways of Afterlife's secure side are a dark grey with no signs, the only exceptions to the uniformity being some splotches of paint here and there, some burns from industrial accidents back in the mining days, and even a few stops that are missing chunks from where, presumably, explosives were set off during Aria's takeover of Patriarch's operation. Personally, I kind of appreciate Aria leaving it the way it is, as a little reminder that this place isn't impenetrable, and that we need to constantly be on alert.

Or Aria could just not care if it looks nice at all. She's weird like that sometimes.

Taking the correct turns at the unmarked corners, I quickly make my way to my room, which I've marked with my mutated little mark, which looks like an X with horizontal lines extending from the ends and the center outward. It's a funny little mark that I doodled once during a boring math class, and after messing around with symbols and emblems for a while, it grew on me a little. It might not be an anagrammed version of my name a la Lord Voldemort, but it's an affection of mine. I'd write it on the corners of my notebooks, on the top of my laptop (well, on top of the duct-tape that was on top of my laptop), and when I extended the lines horizontal as well, it become an interesting geometric pattern on graph paper.

When everything else was unmarked due to either security or laziness, I used it to signify my door.

Entering my familiar by-now room, I toss my bag on my asari-made bed (way too soft, it needs to be a little more firm, or I struggle to get out of bed) and peel off my shirt, reaching back to lock the door just in case somebody wants to enter while I'm changing. Just a politeness thing, from me to them since any nudity-in-front-of-others taboo I had got stripped away (oh, _God _that was horrible… I swear that wasn't intentional) at boarding school.

My pants quickly follow my shirt into the dirty-launder chute (down to the laundry room that I'd later stop by to pick them up from whoever had laundry duty today), and I wrapped a towel around my waist to go shower.

Afterwards, I'd head back up to the bar and pull my shift on drunk duty, though this time I'd be in armor instead of clothes. Might as well get used to wearing it, 'cause the way things are going I'm going to be wearing it a fair bit before this mess gets done.

* * *

><p>Slowly, carefully, I inspect my clothing.<p>

I'd ordered a couple sets of clothing from a reliable extranet site some time back, and they'd arrived just before I had left for the Citadel. I'd worn one pair of brown climbing pants on the trip, but there were a few slight differences in the clothing than what I was used to, so I knew that I had to inspect it.

It's not like the future had changed a fundamental part of the clothing industry or anything (though it probably had), but it's just the way that clothes sit on my body, regardless of time period.

Take a… loose zip-up hoody for example, the kind that are made a little larger than the pull-on hoodies. If I were to try to spar somebody or sprint in it, it'd get in my way, slipping off my shoulder or bunching up and impairing movement, something that not only impairs my movement, but also annoys the hell out of me.

It's why I asked Adin to do a couple of modifications to the set of Marine armor – I mean, _my _armor – before I left for the Citadel. Something that small isn't a major worry, but I don't want to be distracted while I'm wearing armor, because it's hard enough as it is to try to move in the armor.

I mean, there's a reason that in some games like Fallout, you needed training to wear power armor; it's 'cause _that shit is bulky_. I mean, Mass Effect has the most simplistic power armor (that isn't at least partially magical, that is), and I _still_ have trouble making my motions smooth. Back when I first put on the armor, I did a basic kata to test my range of movement, and the crap performance of that kata wouldn't have been acceptable for an orange belt, much less a brown.

So when I bought my clothes, I looked carefully at the pictures of people wearing them, to make sure I got stuff that would fit just the way I wanted. It took me a couple years to assemble a good set of gear back Home, and I don't have time to worry about clothes what with the_apocalypse_ coming and all, so I want to get this stuff out of the way quickly.

I'd gotten a couple simple shirts (both V-neck and normal), a few button up work shirts (the rougher kind made for all sort of oil, grease, and paint stains that come with manual labor), and four good sets of climbing pants (because of the flexibility and mobility, not to mention comfort).

With this in mind, I pulled on a pair of light khaki climbing pants and a dark grey shirt before mag-clamping my omni-tool to the outside of my left thigh, on a spot specifically reinforced for that purpose. Checking to make sure the omni-tool was activated, I tap into the Afterlife comm. net, the chatter going directly into my head via that very handy N7 translation/comm. implant.

Everything secured, I jump in place twice to make sure nothings jostling, then I jump again, tucking my knees up into my chest, but nothing rattles or shakes, so I'm content that the stuff won't get in my way.

Stepping out into the grey corridors of Afterlife's base, I make sure to palm my door's sensor and lock it with a little program I'd bugged Vasir into giving me. The encryption on it was Spectre-quality, so my gear was safe.

I turn, walking quickly (as I have a tendency to do) down the hall to where the emergency stairs wait. As I stride through an intersection, I pass a batarian who sneers at the sight of me and tries to deliberately smash into my shoulder. I half-turn unthinkingly and the batarian only bumps my shoulder lightly, but nonetheless he growls as if I had just insulted him.

"Watch where you're going, _human_." the batarian spits, stomping off in a manner that seems… disgusted? Why the hell would he be disgusted?

Whatever, I shrug. I'd gotten Anto over to my side, and I hoped Grizz as well, but I was still the only human in Aria's employ, and not many were happy about that considering I was an unproven kid in their eyes.

After I descended the three floors to the armory, the incident was out of my mind. After all, it wasn't the first time, and I was sure that it wouldn't be the last time.

"Nick! Good, good, I just finished up with your armor!" Adin greets warmly, arms spread wide. I chuckle and smack one of his hands in a semi-high-five, and he smiles, already knowing what the gesture means.

"Awesome, everything?" I ask, moving over to where the noticeably different armor rests on a workbench.

"Just about. The cables are covered underneath the armor now without any negative effect on the mobility, and I fixed the shoulder pads by cutting them into two pads, as you see there, and the sides of the chest plate have been lightened, though that cuts down on a little protection, and because you're skinnier than the standard marine I managed to stuff in some extra kinetic barriers and upgraded the VI interfaced within the suit with the extra space, but you're still going to be slim and fast, so it isn't _too_ drastic of a change, and then I-"

"Adin!" I interrupt, smiling lightly at the salarian's hyperactivity. "Relax, man, I can see for myself. I just want to know about the stuff that isn't immediately noticeable."

"Right… okay." Adin says, deliberately slow. "I tweaked the kinetic barriers and fine-tuned them, the same as any techie would do. It's a basic step, but it'll help. The VI interface will help provide a targeting crosshair by tracking eye motions, and will also optimize your omni-tool if you have the proper protocols and software."

"In addition to that," Adin continues, making eye contact (presumably to make sure that I am paying attention). "I calculated the precise amount of weight that the Mass Effect field will remove based on your weight. To put it simply, you can't make the armor entirely weightless because that drains the suit's power and complicates the maintenance. Instead, this is the best possible mixture of lightweight armor and power-use."

"Alright, sounds good." I say, running my hands down the armor, which had even had a paintjob (the usual shade of steel on the main plates, with dark tan trim, for the record) to both identify myself as not belonging to any particular gang (Aria didn't have a particular color scheme, so I went with my gut) and to make sure the armor wasn't immediately recognizable by the Alliance.

"The under-suit is over there." Adin notifies, pointing to a small covered section that will give me some privacy while I change.

Perhaps this needs some explaining. Some suits of armor can be worn nude (usually with at least underwear), but others require a specialized undersuit with attachments and connections; either because the armor is not advanced enough to allow wearing without an undersuit, or because the undersuit is used for higher performance with the armor.

Think of it like two bicyclists racing, with one in proper bike shorts and top, and the other wearing a loose muscle shirt and basketball shorts. They can both compete, and the one in baggy clothes might win, but he's not going to be as comfortable or as capable as he would in the proper gear.

So if I don't want my new clothes to get crushed/ripped in the armor, I've got to wear the undersuit.

After I get the bizarre scuba/spandex/mechwarrior-like undersuit on, I come back as the workbench descends to the floor and the armor (now chest down to the floor) opens up, splitting along the spinal cord.

"Okay, that's a little weird." I admit, before kneeling down to get into the armor. Knees first, then feet, lower the chest, then lay arms down. The actual gauntlets will come on afterwards.

"You know the command?" Adin checks, though he knows full well I do.

"Initiate." I say, and the armor swallows me whole.

It's a bizarre feeling. As the plate joins together, interweaving to lock the plates around my body. The back of the boots link together and then join to the nubs on the undersuit, transmitting data to the suit's VI about _how _and _where_ I am moving. The suit seals back up perfectly, with every connector on the undersuit linking properly.

But I'm stuck on the ground, and since I haven't put on the gauntlets I don't want to put weight on my hands, simply out of 'I don't know, some I'm not going to risk it.' So I roll over, and Adin hands me the gauntlets.

I tug the right one on, wave my omni-tool and the gauntlet_ shivers_, knobs spinning and adjusting to where the armor meets it at about halfway down the forearm. Screwing itself in place, it ceases movement and I pull the other one on, and since I can't wave my omni-tool I simply smack the small button on the inside of the forearm to start the same process.

I sit up, hopping to my feet effortlessly (to be fair, I could have done that without the armor… but not as easily) and stretching out my arms.

Lastly, I put on my bucket, and I'm armored up.

"You're on shift with Grizz, Nick." Adin says, and I nod before trooping off to Afterlife proper.

Stepping back out into the booming and bustling crowd of Afterlife is different with a helmet on. For starters, the helmet kept ID'ing mass effect generators such as those in power armor, helpfully pointing out everyone who was armed, stuff like that.

I'd uploaded the Afterlife data package from my omni-tool to the suit, and the HUD hooked up the helmet comm. to the frequency that Afterlife's guards used.

"Grizz, I'm good to go. Where do you want me?" I ask over the comm., noticing that the corner of my HUD was showing my name next to a little sideways V, showing that I was talking. Handy little feature, that.

"Come to me, we're going to see if you can spook somebody." Grizz replies distractedly.

"Aye, boss." I confirm, spotting him over by his usual spot.

It wasn't his in-game spot; instead he was one level above the main floor. The smaller levels above the main floor were mostly for the regulars and those who could shell out the cash for a reserved spot. as such, it was more calm than the hectic and unknown dance floor, where any number of random threats could lurk.

For us guards, we used the upper floors as watch posts, using them to keep a good eye on the crowd and to make sure that trouble is nipped in the bud before any major damage is done.

I'd previously thought that Aria was dumb for allowing mercs and others to keep their side-arms and armor, but with the guards posted in a position like this, we can stop most fights before they get off a second shot.

There's a reason that Blood Pack, Eclipse, and Blue Suns are all allowed into Afterlife, and why they don't start any serious fights (bar fights are expected, and only really net the 'punishment' of getting tossed out). I mean, this is _Omega_, bars and gambling dens get knocked over all the time; yet Afterlife is usually left alone for the same reason that no sane person argues with a krogan about the Genophage. It's simply best to avoid all the bloodshed and pain.

…I'm starting to use sayings from this universe as opposed to my own… not sure if that is a good thing or not.

Anyway, I move through the crowd a little brusquely, compensating for the unfamiliar feel of the armor by trying to not overreact. If I jerk suddenly, it'll be too obvious that I'm new to using armor, and I don't want to give any potential troublemaker more confidence than the booze does.

No need to appear unnecessarily weak, after all; at least not in the physical sense, and not yet.

Grizz is leaning on the railing overlooking the entry way and the primary dancing spot, giving him a view of most of the main floor. In particular, he looks like he's scanning the front entrance as I ascend the secondary set of stairs, the ones behind Aria's private booth.

"You want me to _spook_ somebody?" I ask quietly, standing next to Grizz.

"I've got my eye on a batarian down there who's looking suspicious. What you're going to do is simple; walk nearby, and linger. If he's as jumpy as I think, he'll make a move. If not, then stick around so that he does."

I nod, turning to move down the stairs inelegantly when Grizz's voice stops me.

"And Nick? Set the armor's strength enhancement to standard human."

A tad puzzled, I follow his instructions with a few waves of my omni-tool.

Taking a step, the armor follows my motions much more naturally, instead of exaggerating all the motions.

"Thanks, Grizz." I acknowledge happily as Grizz shakes his head. "That was bugging me for a while there."

"Adin knows his stuff, so he custom set your armor weight, right?" Grizz asks, receiving a nod in reply. "That's what I thought. That'll help, but he forgot that this is your first time in armor; you need experience to get used to how much the armor compensates. Setting it to the standard species weight is an old soldiers trick for when the techies mess it up."

"Thanks!" I repeat gladly, bouncing a little on the balls of my feet to test the new setting.

"No problem; just remember to slowly put the settings higher as you get used to the motions and you'll get the hang of it."

Moving down the staircase is a lot easier now, since I don't have to worry about my steps going too far or pushing back too hard. Granted, I wasn't going to be using that enhanced strength that I was looking forward to having, but I'm used to being physically weaker than my opponents.

You don't really need strength, you just need to – no, I do _not_ have time for _another _lecture. The precise mechanics of fighting and movement and all that jazz is more than I can explain in – well, in anything less than a couple of weeks.

Long story short, unless I was up against a krogan, I was confidant in my ability to survive. I might not _win_, but I'd survive.

So when my 'spooking' of the target comes off the rails, I'm ready.

It all happens in a blur; a grizzled human in yellow armor whips his drink at the batarian bartender, my target gets 'spooked' and runs into the back of the merc just as another batarian goes to smash his bottle into the human's head and my mark catches it instead, and everything goes wild.

"I've got the bastard!" I bark over the comm. link, vaulting the table between me and the bar fight and charging into the fray.

I'm light, just about one-fifty five pounds of skin and bones and stringy muscle, but as I said before, there's a lot of technique that goes into… well, everything.

I charge into the fight, dropping my shoulders and forming my back the way I'd been taught by the rugby coach at my old school. I might have been a skinny little rower, but I'd been a good friend with the Head Coach, Mr. Murdy, and Murdy made sure his friends could take care of themselves. I wasn't anywhere near good enough to play for the team, but I wasn't exactly going head to head with a prop, was I?

A few very painful rugby practices with the First XV later, and I knew how to tackle passably, at least by Murdy's standards. 'Course, I also got beaten black'n'blue, but that was nothing new for me.

So when I connect with the batarian who is trying to escape through the front door, I _flatten the fucker_. The armor helps, I'm sure, but the blunt force that picks up the panicking runner and drives him into the ground doesn't care where it came from.

"Nick, the batarian's down, get the brawlers!" Grizz roars. I'm sure that he was on the move, but I didn't have time to check because I was back on my feet hastily and running headlong into the heaving crowd. Fists and bottles are flying while the innocents (well, as innocent as somebody in Afterlife is) are fleeing the scene.

"Come on you g_odd_amn bastards!" roars the human in yellow armor, his mutated British accent normal similar to the others that I'd heard; time had a way of mixing and merging accents. This one seemed familiar, though - and who the hell said g_odd_amn like I did?

The human merc was an old grizzled badass from the way he was holding court, but when he'd attacked the bartender (why had he done that, anyway?) he'd pissed off every single batarian in the immediate vicinity. The bartender (the same batarian from earlier, in the secure section, I realized) was starting to climb over the bar but I noticed alien blood running down his face in rivulets, presumably from where the merc's glass had impacted.

But the merc was getting swarmed.

I waded in from behind, driving my open right palm into the back of a brawler's head. Before, I would have hurt the guy badly, but probably wouldn't have knocked him out. With armor on, he went down like a sack of potatoes.

"You want a piece of me?" the merc bellows, his accent really bugging me. "I'll kick your asses from here to the fucking Citadel!"

The seething group of brawlers shifts with force as the merc literally tosses a batarian over the crowd, and I catch a glimpse of the merc's heavily scarred face.

Holy shit, I think, as I duck a drunk patron's haymaker. Snapping my mind back into the necessary focus, I smash my left elbow into the xeno's kidney (or where a kidney would be on a human, at least) and follow up with a palm-heel to his chin, shattering his jaw.

That's Zaeed! That's _fucking Zaeed!  
><em>

I don't have time to think about Zaeed. The same instant that I recognize him, a bottle smashes against my helmet, putting a fair bit of force onto my head. The helmet does the main job of protecting my skull, but I still feel a _smack_ as it impacts.

The blow came from my right side, so I drop my chest and skip out, my right foot launching out to plant itself in my enemy's sternum. My chest dropping parallel to the ground counterbalances my stretching leg, but while my armor is pretty accurate for my weight, it's still too much weight on my upper body.

The kick lands with about half the force it should have, and I stumble to the ground as the weight of my unbalanced armor settles on my back.

_Fool! _I snap at myself, recovering as quickly as I can. Instead of getting straight to my feet, I lunge forward, catching my weight on my gauntlets and _pushing_, my legs following.

In effect, it means that when the batarian goes to follow up with a stomp, he only hits the ground. Basic evasion, don't be where they _think_ you're going to be, that kind of stuff.

So when the batarian's foot stomps the metal floor, I spin on my back heel (the closest to him) and _twist_, torso and hips powering forward my left fist directing into the codpiece of his armor. My fist hurts a little from the force of hitting such a hard object, but the armor protects it; and more importantly, the batarian recoils, grunting in pain.

I don't know if batarians feel that the same way we do, but I know that they feel jaw pain, so I follow up with a palm-heel straight into his grimacing jaw, smashing it into his upper teeth with the sound of shattering teeth lost to the booming pulse of Afterlife's music.

The batarian falls backwards, presumably unconscious; so I lean down and grab his torso, struggling to lift his weight so that I can toss him back, clear of the brawl. The other bouncers will show him the door, but I've got to get the rest of this bar fight under control before it makes Afterlife lose face.

The next batarian isn't wearing armor, so I give him a solid open handed smack upside the head with my right hand to distract him while my left foot slides firmly behind his foot and my knee behind his.

The batarian barely has time to flinch before my left hand swings over in a powerful ridge-hand strike. The blow connects with his neck and makes him gag, but I keep the pressure up _through_the 'end' of the strike, pushing the blow as far as I can.

The batarian instinctively tries to back up to keep his balance, but my foot and knee are in the way, and my ridge-hand pushes him over his point of balance, smashing him into the ground.

The batarian doesn't make a move after his head connects with ground, so I rapidly grab one of his arms and throw him a measly four feet away, but he's out of the fight.

There's only five – make that four, as Zaeed drops a howling batarian with a brutal throat punch – batarians left, but two of them are in armor. With Zaeed on my side, it should be about even, so I grit my teeth and skip forward with a lunging front kick that catches one of the armored batarian mercs in the side and pushes him a few feet back.

The batarian turns to face me, completely sober and enraged, but before he can do anything two armored talons slip around his neck. The other claw reaches down between the batarian's legs, and with a might heave Grizz _lifts_ the batarian up and hurls him towards the entryway.

I automatically turn to the next target, but Anto has already tackled the bastard to the ground before proceeding to use the butt of his rifle like a baseball bat and smashing the drunk's head open, rendering him unconscious instantly.

I spin in time to see Zaeed grabbing the bartender by the head and yanking him downwards to meet his knee, _smashing_ the batarian's face even bloodier and just repeating the process over and over.

The last armored batarian, seeing me as the best target, charges in for a tackle, but I quickly skip to the side with room to spare, and the batarian runs right into Kaldur, one of our krogan bouncers. I can't see the batarian's face when he realizes his fuck-up, but Kaldur's bloodthirsty grin makes up for it.

The merc tries to backpedal, but Kaldur's hand shoots out, fast as some of the masters back home, and seizes the batarian's neck. The batarian makes one last attempt to wiggle out, but Kaldur simply _squeezes_, and the batarian gets the hint. Reaching down, Kaldur picks up another unconscious merc and tosses him onto his shoulder, the batarian lying over Kaldur's hump.

The violence now ended, Kaldur takes a glance up at Aria's booth, where I can see her watching with veiled approval.

"Dump them out front as a message to anyone else." Aria says coldly over the comm. link, and Kaldur trudges off towards the front door.

Breathing a little harder than before, I bend down and scoop up the merc I'd thrown to the ground, slinging him over my shoulder in a crude fireman's carry as I walk. Anto also pick ups a few of the unarmored batarians by their belt loops and starts dragging them, uncaring when their heads bump the floor a couple of times.

Glancing back, I see Grizz holding a shotgun at Zaeed, who's pointing at the beaten but still conscious bartender with an accusing finger. Grizz apparently believes him, because the shotgun is only loosely pointed at Zaeed, and as I watch, Grizz holsters it, gesturing towards Aria's booth.

"Hey, get moving." Anto grunts, nudging me gently with one of the drunks.

Obligingly, I move, and we trudge towards the front door. As it opens up to the ugly gray and colorful neon of Omega, I can see a few people in the line blanch at the guards dropping unconscious bodies outside the main door.

Kaldur drops his load over the stairs and releases his hold on the still conscious merc, before rearing up and kicking him in the ass, launching him a good ten feet out. Damn, I knew that krogan were walking tanks, but it's one thing to hear it and another to see it.

"Anybody who thinks that they can start something in Afterlife, just keep these idiots in mind." Kaldur rumbles, his deep voice echoing over the crowd.

Anto hucks his load out one at a time, and I lay my cargo down on the steps before rolling him down with a nudge of my boot. Before I troop back inside the big main door, I take a glance at the numerous unconscious and bloody bodies, before noticing that the one conscious merc was giving me some kind of batarian hand gesture, presumably one that wasn't quite nice.

Chuckling a little underneath my armor, I point my hands, palms up, at the heap of unconscious bodies on the filthy ground of Omega, as if to indicate that he was free to try whenever he wanted to join the pile.

Turning back inside, I nod respectfully at the doorman, another krogan by the name of Gerav. Before I can make it through the door, though, Gerav nods back, which surprises me.

Wondering about this odd development, I ponder it up until I enter the main floor of Afterlife, where Kaldur is waiting for me, arms crossed.

"What's next?" I ask, waiting for orders.

Kaldur laughs boisterously, again surprising me.

"Already good to go for another scrap, huh?" Kaldur questions approvingly. "I'd give you clean up duty, but Aria told me to send you up to her instead."

"Eh?" I murmur in curiosity. "Well, if the boss says so, I'm not gonna argue. She'd crush me into paste with a finger if I did."

Kaldur laughs again, slapping me on the back as I walk past him and making me stumble at the casual force behind the blow.

"You fight decently, human." Kaldur responds with a rumbling tone, one that I didn't recognize.

"Uh, thanks." I reply with a little uneasiness, nodding to him before moving towards the stairs.

Unlike the first couple times, some of the crowd shifted away as I approached, giving me a few more inches of room. I guess maybe they actually saw me as a proper guard now, but what would I know about the group psychology of various alien species?

Climbing the last few stairs, the first thing I see is Zaeed leaning against the low wall of the booth, his pistol casually pointed at the kneeling bartender, whose name I finally remembered. It was Forvan, that asshole from the second game who poisoned every human he could take a chance on. Guess his luck ran out a little quicker than in canon, but oh well, that explains why Zaeed chucked his drink at him.

"Massani." I greet civilly, walking around Forvan's kneeling form. Grizz and Aria are chatting, but Aria's eyes never leave Forvan, who's no doubt shitting himself at all the attention.

"Nick." Aria tersely welcomes, tapping her head once. Getting the hint, I pull off my helmet and mag-clamp it to my belt.

Shaking her head, Aria taps the back of her head this time, and I flush a little at the annoyed response.

"What's up?" I subvocalize, my implant picking it up and sending it on a secure comm. link to Aria.

"Do you have anything on him?" Aria asks bluntly, as Grizz moves over to pat Forvan down for any weapons.

They would have already checked him before they took him to Aria, so Grizz going over there is just a gesture, but it's one that I appreciate, giving us a little privacy in the loud and pulsing noise of Afterlife.

"Zaeed?" I say quietly, abandoning the comm. as I sit in the left hand spot on Aria's couch. "He pops up in the – intel, so I know a fair bit about him, but he's got no agenda other than his money and his revenge."

"I meant the bartender." Aria corrects sardonically, rolling her head over to give me a blank look.

"If I've got this right, that's Forvan, right? He's got a grudge against humans 'cause a bunch of them killed his brother on Bekke, though I don't know how long ago that was." I inform Aria in a low voice.

Aria nods to confirm that I was right about the name, then pauses.

"I meant Zaeed." Aria remarks wryly, then she sighs before standing up.

Forvan looks up at her with a mixture of eagerness and dread, but his face turns horrified when Aria simply draws her Carnifex and blows out his brains in one smooth motion.

"Nick, care to explain why I did that?" Aria instructs, taking back her seat while Grizz and Zaeed look at me.

I don't jump at the gunshot, but the sight of batarian blood and gore across the floor make me pause for a moment before I shake my head and focus on Zaeed, who's eyes have narrowed at my visible nausea.

"That _was_ Forvan. He held a bit of a grudge against humans after a couple of them killed his terrorist brother, so I'm guessing he tried to poison your drink." I rattle off for Zaeed.

"That's about right." Zaeed grumbles, kicking the body once. "Just when I get in for a drink after a contract, somebody tries to fucking poison me."

"Always an active life, Massani?" Grizz replies, though his tone tells me he only knows of Zaeed by reputation.

"S'about right." Zaeed answers frankly, nodding his head. "I'll just go back to my drink then."

"Wait." Aria calls, stopping the yellow-armored merc before he can take another step.

"What's this, Aria?" Zaeed asks bluntly, eyes narrowing again at her command.

"You're the best there at what you do, aren't you Zaeed?" Aria probes, her head tilted like she'd just got a good idea.

My stomach drops instinctively, and I pay close attention to what she says.

"That's right." Zaeed grunts. "If you want a bounty hunter, then I'm your man."

"I don't want a bounty hunter." Aria says brusquely. "I want somebody to show him the ropes."

To my horror, she gestures at me with a tilt of her head.

"Your _boy_ here? And why'd you want me to do that?" Zaeed questions, giving me a good once-over, and not looking too impressed with what he sees.

"He has potential, but he needs to know how to fight, I've got no other humans in my organization to teach him, and a batarian or a turian won't do him any good." Aria lists candidly.

"You want _me_ to be his babysitter?" Zaeed clarifies in an affronted tone. "It's your money, but it won't be cheap. Twenty thousand per day's my fee."

"How about this?" I interject in a level voice, drawing his steely gaze and meeting it. "Instead, I give you every scrap of intel on one Vido Santiago."

"How the _fuck_ do _you_ know that name?" Zaeed demands, angry at the mere mention of Vido. Shit, I knew he hated the bastard for shooting him in the face, but I'm taken aback at how much raw _rage_ in Zaeed's voice.

Then again, that's perfectly normal for him; another one of those differences between seeing this much rage in a game and seeing it in real life, I guess. I remember Zaeed's rant about how he saw Vido holding that gun at him every five minutes, so he's got a _point_.

"I know a lot of things Zaeed, that's why Aria wants me to know how to fight. You teach me for a little while, and I'll help you find Vido and pin him to the fucking ground." I reply coolly, Aria's subtle look of approval helping me keep my calm.

"Do we have a deal, Zaeed?" Aria drawls, drawing his gaze away from me.

"Get me Vido, and I'll teach your boy." Zaeed snarls, hands tensing at the thought of Vido in his grip. It almost looks like he's throttling a mental version of Vido... well, he probably is.

* * *

><p><strong>16:04, Omega 'Time' <strong>

"I can shoot." I argue, sitting on my seat on the firing line. "Look, that target's got to be a good two hundred yards away, and I got a clean, tight grouping."

"There's a difference between shooting and fighting, punk." Zaeed disagrees, taking a drag of his cigarillo.

Honestly, I'd have thought him the type of guy to smoke short stubby cigars, but I guess that's just popular culture infiltrating my way of thinking after seeing too many 'macho' stereotypes.

"Yeah," I counter, annoyed. "One way involves running around like an idiot in a killzone and spraying fire everywhere, and the other involves sitting back out of the action and actually using some skill."

"An' how often are _you_ gonna get that chance, boy?" Zaeed parries, crossing his arms as he leans against the weapons bench.

"Every single time, if I can get away with it." I shoot back without any hesitation. "I'm not a brawler, man, I just need to know how to move in armor."

"Learning how to fight up close is the next fucking step." Zaeed says heatedly. "If you're gonna be running around in full plate, you might as well know how to fight in all that armor."

"Fine, you're the boss!" I concede angrily.

Let's get this across right now: I don't want to be in _any_ firefights. I've never been in a military or a merc group (Aria's Guard doesn't count, given how recently I joined), and there's going to be a couple _billion_ people out there who could crush me in a head on fight, guns or no guns. My only way of surviving is to use my head and outsmart those people, preferably through use of an outside context problem.

Of course, Zaeed doesn't agree with me, so when I turn to go back to my shooting, he appears behind my shoulder and shoves my head against the bench with a loud_ BAM _before I can even pick up my damn rifle.

"The fuck was that for?" I demand, sweeping his arm aside and standing up.

The futility of standing up is quickly revealed to me when I realize that I am one-fifty pounds, whereas Zaeed is more in the ballpark of two hundred pounds of sheer muscle.

Zaeed stares straight into my eyes with a steely gaze, unnerving me when he doesn't answer.

"You need to harden the fuck up, runt, and I'm here to do that. If you didn't want it, then why did you get Aria to hire me?"

"I had nothing to do with that." I disagree. "I only spoke up so that Aria wouldn't lose money and you would get some payback."

"And how did you know what I wanted with that g_odd_amn bastard Vido?" Zaeed snarls, leaning his head closer and using his physical presence to unnerve me even more.

"I told you, Zaeed, I _know things_, things like how you have a reputation for being the sole survivor of almost every mission you went on. It's just who I _am_, I know a _lot_ of stuff." I tell him, releasing an internal sigh of relief when Zaeed backs up.

Despite the fact that Zaeed and I have been using the firing range for a good hour now, I haven't seen hide or hair of Adin. Odd, considering that Zaeed keeps wandering around and picking up different weapons to teach me about.

"I don't care." Zaeed answers, handing me a Vindicator and pushing me towards the gate to the target side of the bench. "Get out there and take down every g_odd_amn target you see, or else."

"'Or else?'" I repeat sourly, giving Zaeed an annoyed look. "Is that the _best_ you can do old man?"

"How about, 'or I kick your ass from 'ere to the Citadel?'" Zaeed retorts, crossing his arms again.

"You used that one against the batarians, old man." I riposte as I get to the gate and slap the cease fire signal, which raises barriers in front of the bench and prepares the gate. "Going senile already?"

"After you're done with this, you're going in the ring with me." Zaeed growls as he climbs the ladder to the viewing booth.

The viewing booth rose above the barriers of the firing line, and is made for this kind of training, though I don't think it's been used in some time. Basically, the booth allows Zaeed to completely alter the range, setting up cover and enemies wherever he wants. It gives Zaeed the ability to simulate a firefight for me, minus the actual noise.

"Ready yet, punk?" Zaeed questions, his voice echoing over the loudspeaker.

"Ready when you are old man!" I call over to him as I get set, putting my bucket on.

I didn't have any training for firing on the move, so the best I could do was adapt my fighting stance from Karate to this.

My knees half-bend, giving me stability and speed, while I sight through the unfamiliar Vindicator rifle to test the ergonomics. Lastly, I check my helmet, which obligingly fires up the HUD that Adin and I had calibrated to actually work.

I test the helmet's crosshairs by swinging the rifle to and fro, and the crosshairs quickly spread out, showing how my accuracy would suffer because the butt of my rifle wasn't propped against anything. To check the fine aim, I pull the rifle in close, looking through where the scope would be, if the Vindicator wasn't a prototype model that didn't have the scope.

I'm glad it doesn't have a scope, and instead gives me the faster helmet-sights, but that won't be enough here.

One last glance at the control booth shows Zaeed that I'm ready, and Zaeed hits the signal.

The gate flies open as the metal in the range shifts and rises, some parts forming waist high cover and other parts forming other, more intricate structures.

As soon as the gate rises, I sprint through the entry and get to the closest piece of cover, though my momentum slams me into it a less gracefully than I wanted.

Quickly, I pop my head up and down, my helmet outlining the first target a good thirty feet away.

Twisting at the hip, I pop out of cover with little room to spare and snap my rifle onto the target, one squeeze of the trigger putting five bullets (I don't care for the scientific terms, I will always think of them as bullets) into the upper chest of the human-shaped target.

The Vindicator has a surprising small amount of recoil, but nonetheless my last shot strays up into the target's head; something I _didn't_ want.

Chalking it up to inexperience with a burst-fire weapon, I glance around for other targets, then dash for the next part of cover, a dark chest high L-shaped hunk of metal that covered the forward and left parts of the next approach.

As my back slams into the metal, I raise my rifle and pan it swiftly across the exposed parts of the range, mindful for any tricks Zaeed might try to pull. Luckily for my already straining mind, I didn't have to worry about bullets going back into the armory, as kinetic barriers had snapped in place the moment I had crossed the threshold.

Nothing popped up immediately, so I turned to the front and leaned out, not noticing anything for a second, then frantically pulling my body in when my helmet ID's two targets. A thought strikes me, and I turn to look at the targets, though I keep my head in cover.

Sure enough, the helmet shows the rough outlines of where the targets were, so I quickly lean out of cover again long enough to squeeze the trigger twice, once for each target.

Unfortunately, Zaeed's starting to mess with me, so only one of the targets is there.

Cursing under my breath, I immediately move, suspecting a grenade or another trick. I'd already spotted another piece of cover directly across from this one just in case something like this happened, so I move to hop over the waist high cover and get on the other side. It's ten meters away, so I sprint for the cover like the hounds of hell were behind me.

The target couldn't physically throw a grenade, but the _tink _of a metal cylinder bouncing behind the spot I was just in shows that Zaeed found a way around that.

My breath starting to catch from the quick sprints, I sweep my legs over the waist high cover and go to dive behind it, but my armor makes my motions clumsy, and my left leg catches on the lip of the low wall, dumping me head first onto the ground as the grenade detonates with a bright blue/white blast.

My left leg, still caught on the cover, catches some of the grenades blast and instantly the armor's power in that section shuts off, a nasty surprise that leaves me kicking off with my other leg and pulling with one arm so that I can get it behind cover.

_The grenade was a fucking EMP!_ I snarl in my head, eyes dancing across a damage report that flashes up in the left hand corner of my HUD. The report succinctly shows that the blast shut down the motivators and other gizmos in my left leg, but the armor's VI managed to cut the damage off before it shut down my entire suit.

But even having one leg locked hinders me drastically.

Struggling with the dead weight of my armor, I manage to get my back to the looping end of the cover, grunting as my leg twinges at being dragged around and forced straight.

A flicker of moment catches my eye, and I get just enough time to glance up and see the silhouette of a target. I whip up my Vindicator and brace it as best I can, opening fire on the target desperately before Zaeed calls me out for taking too long.

My first burst goes wide to the left, but not by much, and the last shot smacks into the shoulder of the target. My second burst connects fully, and the target goes down.

Another one pops up to the left, very close and just above the spot where I smashed my leg, and I twist my torso as best I can to bring my rifle to bear.

I get off one burst, the close range making it impossible to miss. The rounds drill into its upper chest and neck, and the target disappears.

Then another target appears, to my left.

My locked leg doesn't want to move, so I jerk my body and fall back onto the ground, squeezing off a –

The Vindicator clicks with tone of an overloaded heatsink just as I see the target's shape.

Frantically, swearing a litany of desperation and hate, I eject the spent heatsink and start pulling the trigger like a fucking madman, as the target hologram of a krogan looms above me.

I unload the entire heatsink into the krogan's neck, but the hologram doesn't even flicker.

My jerky fingers go to reload, but then the hologram winks out and the lights dim.

"You're dead, punk, it's over." Zaeed chuckles over the intercom, his voice brimming with sadistic glee.

"_Fuck you old man!"_I yell back.

* * *

><p><strong>18:30, Omega 'Time' <strong>

"Full contact, no restrictions, and it stops when I say so." Zaeed instructs as he tugs on his sparring gloves, the muscle shirt showing a _lot_ of scars across his torso.

"Bullshit; it stops when we agree it stops." I reply as I wrap the long Velcro strap around my older gloves from Home. Zaeed chuckles, and I take that to mean agreement.

It was good, in a way, to be sparring again. It brought me back to more familiar ground, back to something I'd been doing for several years before this madness.

Of course, on the other hand, Zaeed was a powerhouse that would fight like a brawler rather than a practitioner, and those were incompatible. I'd have to adapt to Zaeed's harder, less mobile style, unless he _was_ a less direct, more mobile fighter, in which case I'd be much better off.

After all, my whole purpose with this spar is to get Zaeed to understand that I can fight in close combat, even though I'd prefer not to.

Zaeed doesn't bow, confirming my suspicion that he didn't have any formal training, but he does extend a fist in the timeless fist-bump of sparring.

It's not a respect thing _yet_; it's more like a starting handshake, but without the weakness. If Zaeed extends it again after I get a good hit on him, _then_ it's respectful.

I return the gesture, and Zaeed instantly throws out a fast left jab, going head height.

I skip to the right, my left arm smacking aside the hard strike, and my right sending a reverse-punch to his sternum.

Zaeed catches the blow with an open hand and starts pulling me into him, my lighter body giving way.

I grin savagely; he's just made a mistake.

I spin on my left heel, skipping in closer and popping up a sidekick against his side. Unlike earlier in my full armor, this time I'm clad in my familiar gi pants and crew shirt, and I know my balance intimately.

My chest counter-balances at the same moment that I twist my right hand, slipping out of Zaeed's grip and grabbing_ his_ hand instead. Zaeed starts pulling back instinctively, but it's too late; I yank him closer just as my side-kick _slams_ into his side, just below the ribs.

A bit of dirty shot, if this was in an 'honorable' dojo (read: hidebound by tradition).

Instead, Zaeed responds by grimacing through the pain and smashing his left hand into the lower section of my knee with a hammer fist strike, jolting aside my muscle control and forcing me to back up with a yelp.

Zaeed's face has a savage grin just like mine; it's the kind of grin you see when somebody realizes that they found a good sparring partner.

Unable to stop it, I grin back at him, and the spar begins in earnest.

Sparring is beautiful, but it is too complex for description through such a limited medium. Fists fly and blows reign faster than an untrained eye can see, experience guiding us when our eyes cannot.

There are no 'strategies' or 'techniques', not for those who know what they are doing. Instead of following a named pattern of movement, we improvise and adapt, such as when Zaeed astonishes me with a butterfly kick; I back up for a second, then sneak in a jab to his kidneys when the rotation of the kick twists him slightly out of place.

Oddly enough, it's restful. The stress of the future and the present flows out and all you think about it the next immediate moment.

Of course, when Zaeed's fist smashes past my block and catches my jaw, I remember that sparring is stressful in it's own ways.

It's a challenge, because Zaeed fights more like a brawler, which basically means that he prefers to smash his blows _through_ my blocks than to pull them back and get them _past_ the blocks. It's a street fight vs. martial arts practitioner thing, and one that I'm familiar with, but that doesn't make it any easier.

Still, I'm thankful for Sensei David's body conditioning sessions, because otherwise I'd be on the ground crying in pain from the directed strikes to my forearms.

Though I can tank a fair number of hits, my main advantage is my speed and training, whereas Zaeed's is his power and experience. Some would say that we'd be evenly matched, but what it really means is that Zaeed is driving me across the training mat, controlling the pace of the fight without a tinge of effort.

I've got speed; he's got power.

Of course, that speed isn't so helpful when your opponent has the experience to chain his strikes in a manner that gets rid of my speed advantage.

There are points when we don't attack for long, tense seconds, and others were we slog it out with multiple hits to each other within a second at most, but the pace varies in a familiar and comfortable manner.

We spar for a long time, and Zaeed is clearly the better fighter, though I'd managed to surprise him again and again with blows that snuck past his defenses.

Unfortunately, the brute-force 'Zaeed _smash!_' method has a distinct advantage when your opponent out-masses you by fifty pounds of muscle, so I will concede that Zaeed had both more successful hits _and_ more powerful hits on average.

And that means that he 'won' the spar.

When we disengage, tapping fists lightly and relaxing, neither of us are gasping for breath, through we're both breathing a little harder than normal. I'd let my training slide away from me so that I could focus on my plans, and I'll bet that Zaeed doesn't get a lot of sparring practice against a lighter, faster opponent.

"I'll give you this; you're a decent fighter." Zaeed admits, before swigging some water from a bottle off to the side of the training area.

"Thanks old man, that means a fair bit when it comes from a bitter old bastard like yourself." I tease back, draining considerably more water from my old water bottle. I'm not going to lie and say that I didn't have to work my ass off and strain some muscles to keep up with the older (but much more capable) bounty hunter.

"Still, you pull your blows back too quickly; that's a problem with all you fancy martial artists." Zaeed grumbles, rolling his neck to get the kinks out of it.

"It saves energy and stops me from getting my arms battered up too much." I contend lightly, my heart not really into it.

While Zaeed stretches to make sure he doesn't damage his body after the fight, I inspect all my various bruises with careful probing fingers, wincing at some of the dark spots where Zaeed and I clashed. Zaeed's got to have a few bruises as well (I made sure of that), but nowhere near the number I have.

But like I said before, I'm _used_ to this kind of bruising. Having a rainbow of different bruises is the rule, not the exception at my old dojo, so this is a welcome return.

...does that make me a masochist? Or does that just mean I've gotten used to having the crap beat out of me? And what does that mean when you factor in Vasir and Aria practically raping me (granted, the second time was actually enjoyable)?

Aw, fuck it, I'm too tired to think about that kind of philosophical BS.

"Yeah, but it wastes too much fucking time." Zaeed points out. "If you're just sparring with someone, then that's fine; but if you're in the middle of some g_odd_amn firefight you need to take a guy out _fast_, and your way's too slow. It doesn't matter how good of a fighter you are if another bastard shoots you in the back while you're taking your sweet time kicking his friend's arse."

"Huh…" I mumble, stroking my beard as I consider it. "I never thought of it that way."

"Most people don't." Zaeed shrugs. "Instinctive belief that everyone plays fair in fights. Too many soft movies and bullshit parents that raise their kids to be journalists, I say."

"Heh." I chuckle, as Zaeed grows more casual. "Yeah, my Dad always had a thing about not working to your full potential. He always said that it was the only way to live."

"Your Dad was right." Zaeed grunts, pulling up a fold-out chair and plopping down. "Now, let's go over everything you fucked up and how to make it better."

"Alright." I nod, as Zaeed starts raking my actions over the coals. It's not offensive; it means that he's trying to make me better.

The fact that we wandered off topic halfway through and starting swapping stories instead of focusing on business is just the cherry on top; Zaeed's starting to accept me, and that's the only thing I want right now.

* * *

><p><strong>19:24, Omega 'Time' <strong>

After Zaeed told me bluntly the things I need to do to get better, we split off; Zaeed went up to the bar and I went down to the 'secure' room to talk to Vasir.

I hadn't seen Vasir since we got off Aria's ship, but that was the whole point. Aria _knew_ that there were bugs in Afterlife, so while the base was 'secure', there was always one room that was really _secure_. No bugs, no monitoring devices, sound-proof, jamming, the works.

Vasir had said that she would be running around Omega in a few disguises while she go started on the List, but we had arranged for a meeting at this designated time so that we could go over the possibilities of the List and what our priorities should be. Vasir had to go around to check with her contacts, to test if some items of the List were even possible.

Sealing the double-redundant (redundant squared?) airlock/blast-door behind me, I nod to Vasir as I enter the well-appointed room. Aria wasn't shy about having nice furniture, though at least there wasn't another of her Couches in here.

"We're clear." Vasir informs me from her position on a dull blue Asari couch (one of those weird Egyptian-lounger type).

"Good, I didn't want to waste time." I reply curtly, sighing in relief as the recliner takes the weight off my worn muscles. "What can we do and what can't we do?"

"We can't get in touch with Anderson. Cerberus has a lot of surveillance on him, kid. We _could_figure out a complicated way to do it, but there's still the major risk that Harper's goons will get ahold of it, which blows that plan out the airlock."

"…Why didn't that metaphor translate?" I ask, puzzled.

"Because I'm speaking English, brat." Vasir says, amused at my confusion. "But let's get back on topic, can we? Anderson's out, but I found Mordin Solus; he's on Tuchanka at the moment."

"Tuchanka?" I cough out, my last swig of water choking in my throat at the surprise of _that_revelation. "The hell is _he_ doing there? You'd think that STG wouldn't let him anywhere near there, retired or not."

"Solus was always known for being too compassionate, and knowing what he wants…" Vasir suggests, adhering to our unsaid principle of not blatantly saying that I knew the future.

"Mordin has a heart bigger than the entire galaxy." I say softly, my chest tensing at the thought of Mordin dying again.

Not again.

Never again.

If anyone deserves to live through this apocalypse, it's Mordin. He's the soul of Shepard's crew, mad scientist leanings _included_.

"Viewing his work, maybe? Reflecting on what he did, necessary or not?" I guess, Vasir nodding in answer.

"Still, he's not thinking about Omega, at least not yet." Vasir says.

Damn, I wanted to get him in on this, and I can't do that until he's on Omega. It's too dangerous otherwise.

"Still, what about the other stuff?" I ask, refocusing my mind on the business at hand.

"My STG contact managed to get me a list of upgrades and improvements for a Polaris Mark X, and I took the liberty of getting those installed and calibrated while you were sparring Zaeed." Vasir informs me, handing me back my omni-tool, which to my embarrassment I had not even noticed was missing.

"How on Earth did you get that away from us when we were sparring?" I interrogate, curious and worried.

If she could do that, then she could have put a bomb in my pants and I wouldn't have noticed until it was too late. That very idea is enough to get me worried, so I don't want to grow accustomed to such close encounters with possible death.

"Another of my acquisitions." Vasir says, the coy yet knowledgeable smirk across her features again.

"No way!" I say breathlessly, my excitement practically visible. "You actually got it?"

"That's right." Vasir says, nodding.

Visual stealth capability… I lay back in the recliner, and stare up at the low ceiling of the boxy safe room, running my hands through my hair at the shock. With that stuff, I can start _really_putting my plans into order, not to mention giving me unimaginable levels of ability due the scarcity of that tech.

I'd actually get to be a proper Infiltrator…

…Nah, fuck that. Bad word, that. How about… Agent?

_Why the fuck am I discussing names of a class? _That shit doesn't matter right, now, _focus _idiot!

My right hand swings out and back in again, smacking against my head with a loud but mostly painless strike.

"It's not as good as it sounds." Vasir warns, and my mood sinks.

"What ways?" I ask, schooling my features and focusing in on the conversation again.

"Firstly, power source. Nothing short of Spectre-level armor can use it for more than half a second. Even then, I only got three seconds out of it. Second, the eezo-signature masking isn't fully working yet; an eezo-scanner can still make out enough of an outline to be suspicious. Finally, the module itself is bulky. It's a backpack on top of my armor." Vasir lists, her tone grim. "We can expect those qualities to improve massively, but in the short run the tech is too limited. Your timeline seemed to be right, the scientists think it'll take a year or more to make it possible, another year for it to be practical. Even then, it's going to be expensive and very limited."

"I don't care." I dismiss. "That tech is a game-changer. With it – no, you're a Spectre,_ you_understand what it means on a tactical level. It's… _big_."

Which was probably the one of my bigger understatements; and I was a fan of them.

"Are you going to let me tell you what I got for your omni-tool yet?" Vasir asks, amused at my reaction.

"Right, right." I reply, waving her to continue. "Since you said omni-tool, I'm going with hacking?"

"Specifically, it's an auto-hacker." Vasir explains, tossing me back the small slim rectangle of my omni-tool. While she explains, I attach the omni-tool to it's spot on my thigh, testing to make sure nothing was drastically different.

"So I just wave it at a lock and it tries to auto-hack it?" I interrupt, calling up the main screen of my omni-tool, where a little cute lock icon sat next to a… ball of fire?

"Basically. It'll still need to be updated with the STG constant updates, but I'll handle that. It should –"

"Did you get me Incinerate?" I interject, gazing at the ball of fire icon.

"You mean the drone?" Vasir guesses, to which I nod. "Yes, it's a pre-programmed suicide drone, flash-forged to be unstable. The farther it gets, the less energy it has to detonate and burn, but that's an acceptable sacrifice for the power to shoot fireballs."

"How's the aiming work?" I ask, careful not to do anything stupid like press the icon.

"The omni-tool auto-syncs to your helmet, so the targeting lock from your eyes will do the trick in locking it onto an eezo signature. They told me there was a way to aim without a helmet, but they also said to not try it unless you were about to die."

I grimace and nod. Message received.

"And last attachment?" I question, my voice a little quieter. This one was, in many ways, the one I needed the most; the most useful one.

"You're in luck." Vasir says with a teasing tone.

She whips her hand in a cutting motion and an orange blade springs to life around her, sweeping at the air with a wickedly sharp edge.

"The edge is a single atom across, or so they bragged." Vasir informs me absentmindedly as the blade dissipates.

"What about the second part?" I demand, my mouth dry at the tension. "Is it malleable?"

"I'm not sure malleable is the right word to use, but it's supposed to be configurable for theoretically anything, so we'll see."

"Yes." I purr triumphantly, gazing at my newly improved omni-tool.

With some time and effort, this baby would be my most dangerous weapon. Oh yeah, now _that's _something to be happy about.

* * *

><p><strong>Man, this Chapter stretched out for <em>forever<em>. I thought I'd never find a spot to cut it off at.**

Anyway, there was a productive spree over at SpaceBattles, so there's also a good four or five Omakes to go with this.

Enjoy!

x

x

x

**Inside Nick's Mind **or **The Little Men inside the Man **(Mercsenary)

*Nicks mind*

"Intruder Detected. Intruder Detected."

"Thats the second time in so many days we've had that alarm. What have we got?" A gruff looking Nick in a old style general's outfit mutters as he peers over another Nick at the screen before them.

"Looks like the same one as last time but there's two of them now. We've lost contact with Libido and as you can see Memory Control is, if you will sir, Freaking the Fuck out."

Both Nicks look over to the side through a glass walled room with Another Nick with the tag Memory Control Officer on his chest yelling into a telephone while other Nicks are rushing about with papers trying desperately trying to file them in Cabinets.

"Sir, Long Term Memory is reporting that someone is accessing their storage. " A new Nick in a messenger's outfit speaks up from a desk further down the row.

"Time?"

"About 5 seconds ago real time."

"Damnit. Okay here's what were going to do. Shut. Down. Everything. I want Autonomous functions only. Long term Memory is to go into Autistic Mode. Short Term is take up the slack of Incoming memories. Nothing is to go to long term. Subconscious control is still trying to deal with the rampage of that first incident."

"And then after sir?"

"We go dark. Keep running in Autonomous. Asses damages. For now _Lay back and think of England._"

x

x

x

**What if Nick was at the Collector Base?** or **Why _THINKING_ is Important **(Xeno Major)

"Fuck this thing, Shepard, let's get out of here." I say to Shepard, shaking my head as I direct Legion to move the platform back to the Normandy

"Nick, we came here to stop the Reapers and rescue our people, so we have to kill this thing." Shepard says firmly, pointing her rifle at the still immobile form of the human-Reaper.

"Yeah, right there with you boss, but let's go about this intelligently, eh?" I counter, leaning against the waist-high cover at the center of the platform. "We've already rescued everyone who was still alive. I got Legion and EDI to hack into the station's controls, checking each other for counter-hacking and indoctrination, and Legion just told me that they have control."

"We can't just attack the station with the Normandy, Nick, the Thanix cannon would take far too long to destroy the station, there's just too much risk. We have to do this the hard way, for our friends!" Shepard says, her tone brooking no argument. It's her 'Commander' tone, the one she uses when Jack or Grunt get annoying, and it almost always forces people to obey.

"Yeah, _no,_ Shepard, that's _stupid_. Weren't you listening? EDI's got control of this things thrusters, so I'm going to push it into a black hole."

"What." Shepard says, looking at me blankly.

"...Or a star. Whatever closer, really. Explosions are too easy for these guys, we either kill them with purifying fire or we drop their asses into oblivion." I muse, as Legion glances at the two weird organics.

"Nick, might I suggest a course that would ignite the station and _then_drop it into a black hole?" EDI suggests helpfully, her little avatar popping up on the platform's holo-panel.

"Ah, excellent idea EDI! That sounds like the perfect way to get rid of this piece of shit." I reply happily, adopting a slight British accent.

"...But we have to make sure it's dead!" Shepard insists. "We have to confirm that it's _dead_!"

"Shepard, if this thing can survive being dropped into a **_black hole_**, the entire universe is fucked anyway. Besides, this way we get to loot all the spacehulks that are just drifting around. Who _knows _what kind of tech is in there?"

x

x

x

**Bonding Time** or **The Old and the New**(SakSak)

**Original Statement by maguado87**:

Such bonding time. I bet when its all done. Both will become friends and dance around flowers. Truly they will become the best of friends

**Response by SakSak is as follows:**

"Do you still flail around haplessly in combat, like a bastard child of a Batarian and a Hanar? Or after two years, have you finally learned how to change the fucking heat-sink before a charging krogan crushes you?"

"Fuck off, old man! I can and will shoot your decrepit ass from a football field away instead of persisting in the delusion that up close and personal is of any use. Except for mind-melding with hot Asari, of course."

"Better than thinking no one ever uses EMPs."

"Go suck an Elcor."

"Such eloquence. In my day, in between taking down Krogans we-"

"-Fuck you old man!"

Yep. The best of friends. Totally can see that.

x

x

x

**Reminiscing on the _F__un_ Times** or **Should Old Acquaintance be Forgot**(cyko2041)

Zaeed: 'Oh Goddamn it to hell.'

Shepard: 'Something up Zaeed/'

Xeno: 'Where the Hell have you been you decrepit fuck?'

Garrus: 'Did that Human...?'

Liara: 'Should we back up?'

Zaeed: 'I'll be taking nothing from you today, you little shit.'

Xeno: 'Well come on, Aria's good will for my training seems to have stretched to an open tab in the Afterlife.'

x

x

x

**Hiring the Vigilantes **or** SPACE AVENGERS, GO! **(Ultra Sonic 007)

STOP.

Omake time.

xxxx

/Timeframe: Mass Effect 2 - Before Horizon/  
>Omega/

Commander Shephard blinked. "You _what?_"

"It's nothing personal Shephard," murmured Garrus Vakarian as his jury-rigged Vindicator let off a single round. Hundreds of yards away, along one of the many gaping chasms and valleys that lied between the walls and districts of Omega, a Vorcha collapsed, headless. "You were dead, and there were things to do."

"Becoming the leader of the Space Avengers is a 'thing to do'?"

The other turian - Grizz, was his name? - chuckled, his Mantis barking as another Vorcha fell. "That sounds like what I told him." He had to give Aria's little 'pet' credit; his use of old-time colloquialisms had made his translation software much more versatile with human idioms.

Garrus harrumphed. "You were practically _ecstatic_about the idea when you found out about it."

"Good idea or not, crazy is crazy," retorted Grizz. "Not that I'm complaining."

Shephard watched as they continued picking off Blood Pack mercenaries from afar, bringing their operation to a screeching halt. Vorcha scattered and fled as their Krogan handlers - trying to find out where the shots were coming from - struggled to rein them in. The two turians took down one of the thundering lizards with a simultaneous headshot.

"Scoped and dropped!"

Grizz snorted. "You're like a bare-talon fresh from boot camp."

The head of the Normandy sighed; barely an hour on Omega, and she had already recruited three people on the dossier given to her by Cerberus. That was ludicrously lucky, even by her standards.

Zaeed Massani had practically been waiting for them at the airlock.

Mordin Solus had actually been at Afterlife conversing with Omega's HBIC herself, talking about Collector infiltrations of the station above all things.

Aria had directed her towards this little corner of her personal fiefdom, where she had found Garrus and Grizz waiting to halt a Blood Pack group doing some...'unauthorized gun-running'.

That last bit was the part she was still having trouble dealing with. "It's just...you? Working under someone like _Aria?_"

"Believe me, my team and I have debated that point to death." _Pow_, and down goes another Vorcha. "We were on the verge of making a name of ourselves when T'loak's little 'advisor' just up and knocked on the door of our safehouse out of the blue." That meeting had been...interesting. "I'll spare you the details of what he said, but let's just say that my team is still alive thanks to him." To put it lightly; telling him that Sidonis had been captured by the Blue Suns was one thing. Pinpointing where he was being held captive was another. Telling him that Sidonis was going to be forced to betray them was yet another. To have Sidonis _confirm_ it when he had been rescued...was another thing entirely. "True, we're somewhat limited in that T'loak's own operations are off-limits...but everyone else is fair game." _BOOM_goes the punctured flamethrower. "With Aria T'loak as a shield, we've been able to do more good than ever before." Less competition for Aria and good PR for her, while Garrus and his team actually get to help those who needed it most.

"Perhaps I should let our dear leader know you think so highly of her," murmured Grizz good-naturedly as the Krogan in his sights took a relativistic grain of metal to the knee.

Garrus continued on as if the barefaced turian hadn't spoken. "It's funny how things work out; since we had an in with T'loak, we were aware of when the Collectors' plague first hit the station. The humans on my team were loaned out to help Mordin deliver the cure, and we nipped it in the bud before it got a chance to get out of control." Aria's advisor had actually given the rough timeframe of when the plague was going to appear; the fact that the Collectors were responsible was the reason why Mordin was willing to drop everything and leave his clinic. It went unspoken that it was under Aria's protection, but then, certain things didn't have to be said.

Shephard sported an odd little smile, shaking her head at the strangeness of it all. "Huh...what ever happened to Mr. 'Black and White'? I thought 'gray' wasn't your thing."

The former C-Sec officer-turned-vigilante chuckled. "Well, I _did_get a little help from you in that regard."

"Still..._Archangel?_"

The turian seemed to smirk and...was he _preening_? "Heaven only wished it had angels as good-looking as me."

Grizz's mandibles twitched out of exasperation.

xxxx

Just a potential ripple of how things might go.

/Garrus and Grizz snarking at each other  
>is the best  
>I can just SEE Nick calling them the Space Avengers  
>and I bet Garrus would roll with it


	8. Chapter 8

**20:12 Omega 'Time'**

**September 25th, 2183**

**My Room, Afterlife**

My asari-made bed was too soft, so I'm lying on the ground at the moment, staring up at the dimly lit ceiling. The harder surface of the floor keeps me awake, keeps my brain churning and keeps me thinking.

My little semi-drone (sadly, no combat capabilities yet) of the _Absolution_ is floating above me protectively, but I barely notice its presence. The only light in my small little room comes from the _Absolution_, and the light blue outline casts the room in a curious way, almost as if I am underwater.

It's times like these that I wonder.

Why bother, right? Why bother at all?

I don't have any _real_ friends here. Everything I know and love is gone, removed from existence for all I know. My family is dead, my town is abandoned, and my nation dissolved.

If I was a character in a somebody else's book, I would criticize the lack of motivation as a flaw in the book.

Perhaps I descend to this low, brooding state because my idea of fun does not include hanging out in bars or clubs; that tends limits my social activities while I am on Omega.

But should I let my lack of empathy screw over an entire universe? Let _everyone_ die, just because I decided to be a whiny little bitch?

Man, I'm getting broody. That's what happens when nothing interesting happens for a while, I guess.

It's been a few weeks since that little escapade on the Citadel, and my 'work' in Afterlife has been the same old mundane tasks, while Vasir flits about the galaxy looking for anything that can help us, checking up on my intel and actually _helping_, while I sit about on my ass and do nothing.

"Fuck, I _need_ to stop moping." I groan, sitting up.

It's not quite time for my duty-slot on the guard roster, but I get ready nonetheless. If I stay here, then I'm just going to get depressed, and that shit just won't fly.

Sighing, I tug off my pants, pulling on the bottom half of my undersuit and tightening the necessary sections. No point in wearing the undersuit if it isn't properly calibrated, after all.

It's a little more difficult with only the phantom-light of the _Absolution _to guide me, so I turn on the lights slowly, so as not to blind myself.

Before I contort my chest through the upper section of the undersuit and join the sections together, I pause to inspect my sore body.

The last time I was this physically active was at the height of my rowing career, but I can't compare training for nationals with training under Zaeed.

That comparison gives far too much credit to mere high school training. Zaeed prepared for a fight like it was an Olympic bout; every moment of spare time is devoted to sparring, lifting, basic field maintenance of guns, etc.

Granted, I'm not suddenly a muscle-bound soldier, but I've added some bulge to muscles that were already toned.

I've never been a weightlifter, but by the same token, I've never been _un-athletic_. Though I didn't hit the weight-room anywhere near as much as I should have, my longstanding daily habit of a basic bodyweight workout (emphasis on core) kept me in reasonable shape.

Before I'd been abducted into this universe, my workouts consisted of that regular workout, plus the Karate Club (though I kept arguing with the Shotokan practitioners) and playing Ultimate.

So when Zaeed gave me the Arnold Schwarzenegger treatment, I struggled.

I mean, I've gotta be honest here, I may be an athletic guy, but I am _not_ the kind of guy who enjoys pumping iron until his arms fall off. Zaeed, _unsurprisingly_, is.

My little room isn't any bigger than my room in college, but there's just enough room for Adin to put in a stand for my armor.

My armor is split along the spine, exposing the plugs and tech on the inside. The inside is dark, unlit by any of the LED's or fancy lights that Hollywood would have put in, and I briefly run my hands along the inside, feeling the bumps and indentations where the undersuit will link with the armor.

Adin told me that the Alliance was moving away from this kind of armor, that my set of armor was the just a prototype and that the whole undersuit-link was too clumsy for the common Alliance Marine.

I can understand that, given that in an emergency, it would take far too long to get the whole suit on, despite the increased performance.

It takes another three minutes to pull on the upper half of my undersuit and join together the upper and lower sections, but I'm finally ready to enter.

Gripping a set of upper handholds, I step into the boots, shifting my feet around until I feel the _click_ of the undersuit rig connecting to the armor. Now connected, my shins and knees connect into their places, and I can stand upright without my legs being in an awkward position. After my legs, the arms and chest are easier to connect. Finally, all the plugs are connected.

"Initiate." I say, glancing at the small mirror placed so that I could see the back of the armor join together.

The multiple parts and connectors move and shift, intertwining and joining, the whirl of mechanized motion making me a little concerned (it's right next to my skin, after all), but it connects without a problem. After pulling on my gauntlets and doing the same, I'm ready to go.

Attaching my Carnifex to its waist-height mag-clamp, I grab my Vindicator and move out of my room, waving my omni-tool and deactivating the holographic _Absolution_ as I do.

I nod at Anto as I pass him in the hallways; he must have just come down to grab something in the middle of his shift. It's not really a problem; the comm. says that things on the floor of the club are pretty quiet right now.

"Headed up early Nick?" Anto asks, stopping to chat.

"Yeah, I want to get a bite to eat before my shift starts." I answer with a light grin, much more at ease with Anto after a few weeks of working alongside him.

"Stay away from the eggs. I think the last guy to pick up fresh supplies was a turian, 'cause most of the spoilable levo-amino stuff is shit." Anto advises while rubbing his stomach to indicate how well the food sat with him.

"Thanks, man. I don't want a repeat of that 'delicious steak' bullshit that Grizz tried to pull on me." I chuckle in response, smacking his outstretched hand in a familiar gesture.

"Not a problem. I'll be right back up in a minute." Anto informs me before walking off.

Before I leave the base, I duck into the kitchen for us employees. Since Aria has a few hundred people hired at any given time, there's a basic kitchen that runs during most of the day with a few set hours around shift-change so that the guards, dancers, and bartenders can have a bite to eat before they have to focus on their job.

It's a reminder that Afterlife is a working business, not just Aria's private gang, and that helps to anchor my head around this still unbelievable alternate universe thing.

A good routine always helps people acclimatize, and that's no different on a space station in the Terminus Systems than it was back Home on Earth.

Since I've got some time (about an hour and a half, by my omni-tool) before the shift change, the line isn't long at all. I snag a plate of basic rations (mindful of what Anto said about the fresh stuff) and a sealed can containing Zaeed's preferred protein-nutrient shake and head out the door onto the floor of the club.

While there are tables in the kitchen (back in the secure section of Afterlife), I'd taken to eating on a small counter top on one of the upper levels of the club, where most of the private booths were located. Originally, the counter was placed there so that guards could grab some food while on duty, so it gives a commanding view of the floor.

I'd taken to eating there so that I could keep an eye out from anything special, just in case someone notable happened to come in the door. I hadn't seen anything interesting while eating there _yet_, but the view gave me some interesting people watching opportunities, and by now it was an ingrained habit.

Ducking through the door separating the secure section and the club, I nod to Jaran, the turian bartender, then slide out of the bar and troop up the stairs to my counter on the upper levels.

I can't see into Aria's booth because of the architecture, but I catch Garka's eye and nod, holding up my plate to indicate that I was eating, but available.

Garka nods back to me coolly but makes no other sign of greeting, reminding me that though I was starting to fit in to Aria's guards, I was still the outsider.

Oh well. Setting my plate down, I furrow and brows and face my next challenge.

Since most Alliance Marines had at least a year to learn to use armor, they had the luxury of adjusting slowly and carefully. With all the hubbub I'd gotten myself into, Aria wanted me to know how to use armor as soon as possible, and had told Zaeed as much

Thus, I was eating my food whilst in armor. It was Zaeed's idea, and like all of Zaeed's ideas, usually ended badly for me whilst still being a very good way to learn.

See, remember all that fuss about the various settings for the armor's strength enhancement and the like? I wasn't used to using armor yet, and so I was naturally very clumsy in armor despite being very dexterous out of armor.

The most common ways of learning to adjust was to do runs in armor, adapting to the footfalls until you could run normally, but the races of the galaxy didn't have any exercises for the hands or fingers.

If I messed up, then I spilled or ruined my own food, ensuring that I _really_ don't want to mess up.

So I was being _pretty careful_ about how I held my fork and reached for my canned protein shake. The first time I'd done this, I accidently applied too much pressure and crushed the flimsy can beneath my gauntlet, sending liquid all over.

Zaeed and Grizz, who happened to be nearby discussing security matters, had of course laughed their asses off at the sight of the protein shake dripping off my face onto a soggy plate of even less-appetizing mush.

Zaeed sees training opportunities in every activity, opponents around every corner, and drinks in every bar. I suppose it's why he's the best damn bounty hunter in the galaxy. Still, Boba Fett has nicer armor.

My eating is mostly undisturbed, but when I go to take a sip from my shake, I see something interesting down on the floor.

_Is that…Liara?_

Sure enough, it is.

Liara T'Soni, in a nice set of armor, talking to an Elcor.

I shrug and take a sip of my shake. Eh, nothing new there.

_Shit!_

I manage to avoid doing a spit-take, but my heart _thuds_ as I whip my head back towards Liara, shocked at her appearance.

It _can't_ be Liara! It- it-

_What's the date?_

Frantic, I check my omni-tool.

September the twenty-fifth… it's been one month since Commander Shepard's death.

Right on schedule, but I _forgot the schedule_.

I swear quickly, tossing my mostly-empty tray and shake into a half-hidden trash receptacle, before going to Aria.

After three quick steps, I realize that I shouldn't be running, so I slow to a quick step, still fast-walking because I figure I can't get rid of any attention I'd already attracted.

Aria is busy, as she so often is, with matters of the station. She's talking with Marsh, probably talking about food supplies (maybe Anto complained about the food to her?) or something similar. Marsh is talking when I enter Aria's vision, and though she might have noticed me, Aria doesn't turn away from him.

I can't intrude on the conversation, not when it's clearly about business, so instead I turn to the nearest of her bodyguards, which turns out to be Kaldur. Odd, normally the Krogan bouncers pull shifts down on the floor, but I guess a little duty rotation is bound to happen.

"Kaldur, there's something going on down on the floor." I say to him, taking care that my voice doesn't carry. "I might miss my shift, just tell Aria that I'm following a hunch, okay?"

"You're going to have to give me a better reason than that, boy." Kaldur grumbles, crossing his arms and looking down at me.

"I can't." I return bluntly, looking him in the eyes. "I wish I could, but this takes priority. Aria will understand."

"Hmm…" Kaldur rumbles, before nodding.

"Go with him, make sure it's taken care of."

I turn, not expecting the interruption. Aria's still talking with Marsh, but Garka is nodding at us, tapping his comm. bead.

"Uh…alright." I say, not expecting this turn of events and not knowing what to say.

"Let's go then, boy." Kaldur says, before trudging off down the stairs onto the floor.

As we troop down the stairs to follow Liara and the drell (Feron, I believe) who have just left, I make sure to pull on my helmet and connect a reasonably secure comm. line to Kaldur, who's one of the few krogan I've seen with a helmet (maybe that has to do with them enjoying the fight bareheaded? I could see most krogan being that stupid).

We move through the crowd fairly easily; nobody gets in the way of a krogan, particularly when he's one of the bouncers. The helmet does a good job of muting out the _thump_ of the club's music and my armor's doing a good job of keeping me cool, but I can't do much about the swarms of people in between us and Liara; it's very difficult to keep track of them in the mobstacle course.

"Alright, kid, what's the plan?" Kaldur asks, his tone oddly comradely instead of aggressive or angry.

Hmmm… how old _is_ Kaldur, anyway? Old Soldier kinda guy, or just seen enough shit to burn out that Krogan bloodrage?

"The asari running off with the hooded drell is a VIP, and I want to see what they're up to. 'Course, I'm pretty sure that somebody else has the same idea, so it's a good idea Garka sent you with me." I reply absentmindedly as I push through a group of batarians in the entryway; one of them looks angry until he sees Kaldur following me.

"What are you expecting, thugs or black ops?" Kaldur questions as we clear the main entrance, nodding to the bouncers keeping the line in check and looking around for our quarry.

_There!_ Liara's heading in the direction of Marsh's market, standing out as she hurries off with the cloaked drell in tow. I can't see any Blue Suns in sight, but they should start showing up soon.

"Neither; should be Blue Suns." I say, stomach lurching at the thought of getting in a firefight, at the thought of _killing_ someone.

"And if it's not?" Kaldur asks with a cheeky tone, presumably knowing what my response will be.

"Yes, Kaldur, we have to kill them." I sigh, Kaldur's deep chuckles rumbling over the comm.

So much for a non-bloodthirsty krogan.

Kaldur takes a moment to pull out his primary weapon, which looks to be an Eviscerator.

"One of Kenn's?" I ask, nodding at the shotgun.

"He does good work." Kaldur says nonchalantly. "Don't mind if he's a quarian if he keeps making guns like this."

"That's a… fair outlook." I observe, drawing my own Vindicator and scowling in dislike. The Vindicator was the best possible gun that _I_ could be using due to it's burst fire nature, but it's still _annoying_.

I mentioned this earlier, but it's time to elaborate on that. See, because I'd grown up shooting guns, I was a decent marksman. The biggest component of that was the time part; if I'd shown up on the Citadel and had a year to hone my skills, I'd be at basic Marine level, whereas Shepard and any other major characters had been using guns for most of their lives.

The Vindicator is annoying because it's a burst fire weapon. I was used to semi-automatic, aimed fire, which isn't too different in theory, but it is _vastly different_ in practice. You brace for the recoil, then un-brace for the next shot, all very quickly, whereas on a burst-fire weapon you have to hold that braced aim until the burst stops.

When Zaeed had tried to get me to learn to use a fully automatic or burst fire gun, he found that I was utterly pathetic. Of course, I could pick targets off with military precision if I had a semi-automatic, thanks to the tutoring of Mr. Anderson, the venerable master (Senior Master Emeritus, technically) of the Rifle Range at my school.

This kind of thing was virtually unknown to Zaeed, who usually dealt with ex-Marines and people who had learned to shoot on fully automatic weapons, and he made his frustration quite clear. Apparently, in the future there aren't as many kids that grow up shooting pop cans at forty yards for fun.

Kenn had come through wonderfully with a simply modification (well, 'simple' according to _Kenn_, who was in the process of hand-modifying every shotgun in Aria's armory) so that my Vindicator was a semi-automatic.

However, this was only a temporary solution. See, whereas a Mattock was designed around the principle of semi-automatic fire (well, originally it was a old-style heat-venting rather than heat-sink, but that's beside the point) and thus had both a smooth trigger pull and a _massive _amount of stopping power, the Vindicator had nothing more than a jury-rig; no matter how much of a genius gunsmith Kenn was, the Vindicator simply wasn't designed for semi-auto.

But that was why I had Kaldur to back me up if there was any fighting to be done. There was nobody better than a krogan for backup, not with Shepard dead anyway.

Once we got a fair distance away from Afterlife, the crowd vanished, leaving Kaldur and I to jog after the rapidly disappearing forms of Liara and Feron.

Suddenly, Feron darted into an alleyway, dragging Liara behind him.

"They're getting away!" Kaldur growls; before I can warn him to be careful he charges off, his dark armor moving at a surprising speed.

"Fuck man, watch out for mercs!" I bark over the comm., sprinting after him as best I can in full armor.

Kaldur's pretty fast for his size, but I somehow manage to catch him just as we reach the alley Feron ducked into, only to see nobody there. Glancing too and fro, I see a few crates that give a decent step up to the nearby roof, and given that drell in general seem to be fascinated with parkour, that must be where they went.

"Circle around, they're hopping the buildings." I tell Kaldur as I move to sprint towards the same set of crate.

Kaldur's hand snags my shoulder before I can start running, though.

"No way, kid. If the Suns are after these two, then _they'll_ be up on the roofs. I know where they're going, follow _my_ lead." Kaldur instructs, before tromping off around the corner.

I frown, but follow like he says. In the heat of the moment, I got a little focused on the goal and forgot that Kaldur probably has a few centuries of experience on me, given that krogan live so long.

"Kaldur, are you a biotic?" I question as I jog up. "Gotta know in advance if you are or not, that'll come in handy."

"A little, but I'm not as powerful as most krogan biotics. Personally, I prefer to stick to guns, they've treated me good so far." Kaldur responds, as the connecting hallway we're on starts to narrow down.

I see Liara and Feron arguing in an open space, and I frantically up the pace to another sprint, trying to get to them before the Blue Suns show-

_SLAM_

The automatic doors at the end of the hallway slam shut, cutting off my view and forcing me to slow down lest I smack myself into the door.

"_Fuck_!" I curse, smacking my armored palm into the door ineffectively.

"_Out of the way_!"

Turning, I get a split-second glimpse of Kaldur's dark armor charging towards me, glowing slightly blue, before my instincts take command and I dive outward, smacking into the side of the wall in my haste to get away.

_**CRAAASH**_

With the shrieking of protesting metal, Kaldur smashes into the metal door like a runaway freight train, sending a few shards of broken siding into the air.

My left shoulder smacked into the wall, but I don't feel anything as I roll back onto my feet.

Surprisingly, the door is still in place, though it's broken and dented heavily. Through the door, I can hear the sound of the light chattery gunfire typical of Mass Effect weaponry.

"Gimme a second." Kaldur grumbles, rubbing his helmet with his left hand as he stands back up, completely unperturbed by both the gunfire and his collision with the door.

Rearing up on one leg and glowing blue once more with biotic power, Kaldur kicks the door dead center with his short stubby leg, sending it _**crashing**_ down and revealing the firefight.

The open courtyard before us is under fire from the left side, with the numerous Blue Suns mercs on the right swapping fire with the gunmen in the upper buildings and rafters (oddities of fighting inside a space station, I guess). I know that the attackers are Cerberus operatives, but that's not a good thing. I try to make it habit to _not_ fight veteran black ops operators for fun.

As quick as I can, I dart over to the left-hand side of the door, raising my Vindicator and firing three times to get the Blue Suns to duck.

Kaldur doesn't bother with cover and instead charges right in again, his Eviscerator firing from well outside a shotgun's usual range (or, at least, the usual range of a Mass Effect shotgun) and slicing up a turian unlucky enough to have his shields already down from the Cerberus fire.

That thought in mind, I snap up my rifle and take aim at the nearest merc, an older bald human who's ducking down behind a column that offers protection against the Cerberus gunmen, but not me, while his shields regenerate.

Before I can hesitate, my finger twitches three times, sending three precise shots into the merc's unprotected dome.

Blood erupts in a burst of gore, and I fight the urge to vomit as a wave of nausea rises up from my stomach and fights against my self control. I'd killed before, with those batarians and then those gangers, but that was different!

With the batarian smugglers, I'd lost consciousness, and woken up to find still bodies, not fresh corpses. With the idiotic humans gangers, I hadn't really had a good look at the whole… well… process.

Stunned at the sight of exposed gray matter and bone, I gulp and stare, the sight of the man's shattered skull against the dull metal burning itself into my memory.

A bullet brings me out of my trance, narrowing _zipping_ by barely an inch or so from my helmet. The shot triggers my instincts again, and I backpedal, Smacking my back against the side wall and back into cover as I breathe rapidly, having difficulty breathing.

"C'mon, kid, I need some support here!" bellows Kaldur over the comm., the roaring of his Eviscerator also echoing over the frequency.

Running on adrenaline and instinct, I smack myself in the face with a hand, then lean back out into the open and fire again. Kaldur was handling the exposed Blue Suns with ease, so I focused on the gunmen in the buildings, firing at the silhouetted figures in white and black armor.

My shield counter drops suddenly, as three or four shots hail back from two different positions. Though my shields hold at what looks like fifty percent capacity, the shock of being shot at jolts be back into cover, where I noticed that my Vindicator also got shot up.

"Fuck!" I swear again, rage coursing much easier than normal through my adrenaline-fueled body.

Two of the shots went right through my damn rifle, and I can see clean through one of the holes. Swearing, I eject the heatsink and clamp the gun to my back, drawing my Carnifex instead.

The gunmen have to be at least thirty meters away and up, and I'm shit with a pistol.

"Kaldur, my rifle's damaged; I'm switching to my pistol." I report as I hold the Carnifex in a two-handed grip and lean back against the wall for cover.

"Understood." Kaldur replies efficiently, as I see him blast another batarian, the wedge-shot _shredding _the merc's chest armor. "Watch out, I don't know who these other guys are, but they're no amateurs."

"Cerberus." I explain automatically, before wincing at the accidental slip.

Leaning back out, I let loose with three quick shots at the closest Cerberus operative I can see and slide back into cover, but all of the shots go slightly off. The operative hurriedly moves away into cover though, so that's one less gun on me.

But before I can do lean out again, the _tink tink_ of a bouncing metal cylinder alerts me to a grenade. Eyes-widening instantly and Zaeed's lessons roaring in my ears, I dive back down the hallway, only to curse vividly when I see that the grenade didn't come from the courtyard – it came from _behind me_, meaning I just dived _towards_ the grenade!

Frantic and desperate, I cover my head and curl up to minimize the damage, but the higher-pitched sound of the grenade tell me immediately that this was an EMP.

The EMP's blast wave still sends me back a few feet, but the bigger problem is that I can't see with my helmet fried.

Panicked, I reach up and start twisting, my ingrained lessons guiding my hands as I uncouple the helmet and drop it to the side, straining against the malfunctioning armor as I do. The resistance on my arms and legs has been cranked by the blast, but I manage to get ahold of my pistol in time to see a suit of white armor at the far end of the hallway, some five meters away.

"_Kaldur_!" I scream, terror holding me in its grip as I stare at Death once again.

Raising the pistol is hard to do with my EMP-damaged armor, but I get it up fast enough to let loose two shots, clipping the shoulder of the Cerberus operative with both and sending him reeling. The power of the Carnifex, particularly this early in the time-line, is quite evident, as the first shot drains the man's shields and the second sends a spurt of blood out.

The recoil throws off my third shot, however, and I just have enough time to eject the heatsink before another operative charges in from the courtyard and kicks the pistol out of my hand. My wrist aches, but I only get a second to notice the pain before another kick smashes against my unprotected head.

My head throbs, and my vision goes black.

* * *

><p>Normally, waking up with a pounding headache and lying on the floor is a sign you had too much to drink.<p>

Since I don't drink, I _theoretically_ shouldn't be waking up with a pounding headache as much as I do.

Well, I've never been one for normality, anyway, so why should this be any different?

Let's see, where am I now… Amsterdam? Istanbul?

Opening my eyes slowly and wincing at the harsh light, the first thing I see is the barrel of a gun aimed at my head. The Cerberus operative in white armor holding the gun makes no move to acknowledge my presence, very professional of him.

Sooooo…. _not_ Istanbul.

"Any chance you could just point that thing at somebody else?" I ask slowly.

The Cerberus guard doesn't even chuckle; he just keeps the gun pointed at me. Tough crowd.

"Right…" I groan, looking around the room.

To my surprise, I'm not in a cell, but what looks like a roomy apartment. The décor is bland and there are no windows, but where most apartments would have closets, this one has a rack of rifles. The closest object to me is a dining table four meters away, where the guard is sitting next to a stack of humming computer mainframes.

There's nobody else in sight, but I can see a locked door with a red holographic interface at the far end of the room, just past the kitchen-bar. Maybe there's someone in there?

My head is pounding, so I sluggishly press my hand up along my aching skull, feeling a very large bump forming.

I want to ask the guard if he was the one that gave me that bruise, but I don't.

The reality of my situation hits me, and I shiver at the implication. I'm stuck at Cerberus gunpoint, in an unknown apartment somewhere on Omega (or maybe even off it), and I've got no backup.

Kaldur might have escaped, might be captured alongside me, or he might be dead (though I doubt that; Kaldur is very much like Wrex in that regard, he simply doesn't _seem killable_).

I shiver, a tinge of adrenaline entering my system again and shaking away the remnants of drowsiness.

My armor is gone, leaving me just in the uncomfortable undersuit, laying in my corner of the room and trying to think some way out of the situation.

The guard is holding only holding an Avenger, but without my armor or my omni-tool, it is more than sufficient. Four meters distance between us, and I'm lying on the ground, so I'd need a major distraction, otherwise I'll get gunned down before I can get to my feet. The guard looks professional, so I probably can't distract him with babble or negotiations.

I don't have any weapons, any hidden tools, and the corner of the room I've been thrown into is completely bare, so I can't throw anything at the guard. A _kiai _will only trigger a gut reaction to shoot me, so that's also out.

It looks like I'm stuck with this situation. I have no other viable options other than wait.

With that in mind, I shift my weight around, trying to get comfortable. I can't sleep, not with the adrenaline in my veins and a gun pointed at me, but waiting for something to happen will be _unbearable_ if I'm completely tense for a few hours.

I take a deep breath in, then out, trying to remember my old lessons on meditation as I stretch.

A glance over reveals that the guard has noticed my stretches, but appears to not particularly care about them.

I go through a set of stretches as best as I can while sitting on the ground, afterwards lying back down and closing my eyes.

I appear to be in Cerberus captivity, so I've got to get a plan together for the various scenarios that could come up.

Alright, then… first scenario: Cerberus kills me.

Well, there's nothing I could do to stop them, and my movements would be highly dependent on positioning, so I can't do anything about that scenario. Discard it, shelve it, and move on.

Scenario two: I'm to be interrogated via beating/drugs/etc.

First condition for escape: I need to either alone with the interrogator, or have a second guard in bad positioning so that I can take them out one at a time

Third scenario…

* * *

><p>Thirty minutes later, I'm bored.<p>

I've run through most of the possible scenarios, made plans for the few scenarios that resulted in a chance for escape, but that finished quickly.

The boring and bland room didn't offer anything interesting to stare at, since Cerberus was smart enough to shut off any holographic displays and move sensitive materials out of sight, so I've run out of things to do.

Aw, fuck it.

"_So_… what does Lawson want with me?" I ask the guard with a bored tone, as I try to look as uninterested and lazy as possible.

I semi-close my eyelids to look lethargic, prop myself up in a comfortable position, and give my words a bit of a slight drawl (basically, doing my best to imitate Shikamaru), and the effect is hilarious.

"What?" the guard utters, looking completely confused and even lowering his rifle a little as his concentration lapses.

"Lawson?" I repeat, giving the guard an odd look, like I suspected he was mentally damaged. "You know, Australian accent, runs around in a cat-suit, genetically perfect, with big-"

"Who's Lawson?" the guard demands, trying to pretend that he doesn't know who I'm talking about, and failing miserably.

"You know… your _boss?_ The person who orders you around… remember?" I say slowly, emphasizing certain words to make the guard sound stupid as I continue to give him an odd look. "Are you alright, man? Did you get smacked upside the head in that last fight – wait, that was me; D'oh."

"Shut up!" the guard barks, standing up and pressing a button on the table.

Two more guards enter the room from the back door, and I take this chance to sit up, leaning against the wall and putting an interested look on my face.

"So… Lawson?" I ask expectantly.

* * *

><p>"Cozy little set-up you've got here." I observe.<p>

At the prompting of the gun to my back, I step into what must be the communication room, with a QEC transmitter pad on the ground and one annoyed-looking Miranda Lawson sitting across from the door.

"No closer." Miranda instructs, her accent ramming home the fact that this is _Miranda Lawson, in the flesh_. Granted, she's wearing much more casual garb than the usual cat-suit: an unbuttoned white collared shirt (well, without the buttons – 2180's fashion is _weird_) and a black tank underneath that, to go with her dark pants

"Or what?" I snark, waving a hand at the floor. "I accidently activate your QEC and end up talking to the Illusive Man?"

Miranda quirks an eyebrow at my comment and waves a hand signal to the guard behind me. To my relief, the guard lowers his rifle, then leaves me alone with Miranda.

"So, what I do for you?" I ask pleasantly, clasping my hands in front of my body. "Need some intel, or maybe a corpse?"

"How much do you know about our operations?" Miranda questions, putting a hand to her chin in apparent interest.

"Depends what we're talking about." I respond, slightly frowning unintentionally.

I don't want to tell Miranda anything more than I absolutely _have to_, though I keep messing up while I'm being sarcastic.

Miranda crosses her arms and gives me a confidant glare, trying to get me to admit it. However, once you've been interrogated by a 6'6" Scottish Headmaster who used to play professional rugby, a normal woman (genetically perfect or not) just doesn't faze you anymore.

"You're not in a good position to be funny." Miranda firmly informs me, tapping the Carnifex at her side.

"_Au contraire_," I argue with an upraised finger, my familiar smirk coming to my lips. "I am _always_ in a position to be funny. If I'm not, then I'm just not trying hard enough."

"You seem to think this is all a joke." Miranda lectures, her voice turning condescending at my (decently funny) line. "I will not hesitate to kill you and dump the body in the gutters, so don't think that you're safe here."

"Again, I must respectfully disagree madam." I counter, smirking full force now. "If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you can possibly imagine."

Miranda does not appear amused by my reference.

"Really," I continue, not at all discouraged by her lack of response to that great line. "If you kill me, then there's no chance of cooperation between our organizations."

A slight fib, hopefully unnoticeable though.

"And what organization would you happen to represent?" Miranda asks, a trace of humor entering her voice. "The Suicidal Maniacs?"

"No, that's the Blood Pack." I answer seriously, though I am cracking up on the inside.

This is just _hilarious _to me, you know?

I was quite serious when a random guard had a gun pointed at me, but now that I'm _talking to Miranda Lawson in the flesh_, I just _can't _take this seriously.

It was easy to take things seriously when I was around Aria or Zaeed because they forced me to be serious or they'd start smacking me, but now that I am _talking to a video game character_, I've reverted to that giddy kid who arrived on this station a month ago.

…Guess that says a lot about my maturity, or my lack thereof.

Or is that my sanity? Meh, who cares?

"I don't know if you happened to _see_ my krogan compatriot while he was busying slaughtering those Blue Suns jokers, but neither of us were wearing any particular colors. We work for someone who decided that theme coloring was just plain silly, unlike you guys at the 'Lazarus Foundation'."

Miranda doesn't respond for a moment, then she smoothly draws her pistol and fires.

_BLAM!_

Jumping backward in fright at the loud noise (particularly in an enclosed space), that smug smirk is immediately wiped off my face as Miranda points the gun at me; her poker face completely intact while mine is shattered.

"Do I have your attention?" Miranda asks, a tinge of irritation showing through her voice.

I nod frantically, eyes wide.

"Well done," Miranda ridiculed, her body-language tightly controlled and unreadable. "You've managed to actually annoy me; that's rare these days. I guess I got used to people being intelligent."

A verbal counter pops up in my mind, but I shut it down instantly, hands trembling again as I realize how badly I've fucked up.

_She's going to kill me._

Oh, _God_… she's going to _kill me_.

"Nothing to say?" Miranda asks, her tone cool and her pistol still leveled perfectly straight at my skull. "Good."

"Now, you're going to tell me everything you know, and then we'll see about how nice I am. Is that understood?" Miranda inquires, her steely-gaze locked onto my shocked eyes.

"Yes!" I answer quickly.

She's… a _person_.

Dammit, how could I have forgotten that Miranda Lawson was _a person?_ She's not a character with preset responses, she's _a real person_.

_You're getting arrogant again_, theorizes the voice in my head, but even that is shaking, understanding the enormity of my mistake.

I've provoked and antagonized one of the top operatives in the _entire galaxy_, because I got _fucking fanboyish about seeing her_. Merely 'arrogant' is the understatement of year; my ego's the size of Omega.

"What do you know about our operations?" Miranda demands, gesturing with her pistol towards a seat off to the side.

Hurriedly, I obey her command and sit down, eye's still locked on her gun. My undersuit, all pointy connectors and awkward metal bars, is possibly the most uncomfortable thing in the galaxy to sit down in, but I'm not going to complain when Miranda is pointing a gun at my head.

I may have had a gun jammed into my back not a month earlier when I first arrived on Omega, but there was a difference between a mugger at point-blank range and _Miranda Fucking Lawson_ at ten feet!

If Miranda wanted to kill me, all it would take the twitch of a muscle, and that would be it; no dodging, no armor, no pleading. I would be dead.

That's a pretty sobering thought, and it cut through my bravado and faked superiority like the bullet she'd placed next to my head.

"I know that you want Shepard's body." I answer hurriedly, subconsciously trying to avoid meeting Miranda's eyes.

"How do you know that? Who gave you that information?" Miranda interrogates, her tone harsh and inquisitive.

I hesitate; knowing that the 'I know _things_' response is one of the worst possible things I could say in this situation. For all I know, Miranda could take that as the clue to throw me to the scalpels and knives of Cerberus's scientists; I have no urge to become the next Paul Grayson.

"Liara did." I blurt out, swearing internally as my voice trembles noticeably betraying just how scared and afraid I am.

Miranda's eyebrows lift and she opens her mouth to speak, but I rush to interrupt, desperately trying to concoct a story that will hold up to Miranda.

"Not – not intentionally, mind you, but just 'cause she was _here_. Liara T'Soni meets with an information broker in Afterlife, what else could she want? It – it's public knowledge that she – she wanted to find Shepard's body on Alchera, despite the whole _'getting spaced and going through re-entry'_ thing and given that the funeral for Shepard _didn't_ have even a closed casket, just a plaque, I just figured that what else would Liara T'Soni want but Shepard's body, alive or dead?"

Still silent, Miranda smoothly glides (damn, even her _walk_ is perfect) over to a chair, the Carnifex pointed on me perfectly level and ready to fire. She stares at me, as my hands shake and my breath catches in my throat, and then she sets down her pistol. Despite the futility of the gesture, it's reassuring for a brief moment.

She could probably pick it up and shoot me dead before I could close the distance, anyway.

"Give me one reason not to kill you." Miranda says flatly, the intensity of her gaze making me look away.

"Uh…uh… co-operation?" I suggest apprehensively, the adrenaline rush starting to wear off; making me shiver beneath my uncomfortable undersuit. "W-we can help you and Liara, make sure that Shepard's body ends up in the right hands. There's no way they'll be able to sneak in and out of one of the Shadow Broker's bases, and there's no way that two people can get out of that base once the guards figure it out."

"You're bluffing." Miranda stated coldly, shaking her head slightly. "Your employer wouldn't want to waste men and resources attacking one of the Shadow Broker's bases directly, and if you had the means to infiltrate it, then you would have done it earlier."

"No…uh, not – not unless we were waiting for the – uh – opportune moment." I respond with an erratic cadence, my eyes still locked on the Carnifex on the table.

"Bullshit." Miranda fires back coolly. "If you had it, you would have used it."

"No!" I deny forcefully, immediately recoiling back as I see Miranda holding her pistol up nonchalantly, as if inspecting it for scratches.

I didn't even see her move to pick up the gun.

"We _do_ have the means to help," I continue, the chill of fear sliding down my spine as Miranda continues to move the pistol around, her icy gaze on me the entire time. "If you just _listen_ to me, instead of trying to intimidate me, you'd see that we do."

"What organization do you represent, then?" Miranda asks, setting the pistol back down, to my relief.

"I, uh, work for Aria." I clarify hesitantly, before realizing that it doesn't matter if I tell her or not, given that Cerberus could find me quite easily if they actually looked. "Aria T'Loak."

Miranda paused, her eyes flicking over towards the QEC as if to question the Illusive Man himself on the subject, before snapping back up and resettling on me.

"Aria has power on Omega, but I doubt she has any hold over the Shadow Broker." Miranda replied finally, her steely tone softening into something that, with some work, could be considered conversational.

"We don't have a hold, we have an agent. One that can get the intel you need and get out without being detected, as well as gather – I mean, uh – help fight off the guards if the situation falls apart." I explain, my voice accelerating as my excitement starts growing again, until I accidently mess up.

"Gather?" Miranda questions, eyes narrowing at my slip.

"…Yes." I respond timidly, wincing as Miranda pounces on my error. "The agent could also gather as much intelligence as possible from the Broker's archives before she slipped away."

"Which you wouldn't share with us, would you?"

"To be fair, lady, neither would you." I point out with a lackluster tone.

Miranda said nothing for a while, merely looking at me with that unnerving gaze.

For my part, I was starting to remember why my eagerness for adventure and action was usually only limited to stories and writing.

Sure, I got out for some adrenaline-fueled activities such as skydiving, shooting, or martial arts, but anything past that was just too dangerous for me.

I was weary from all the excitement, and I wanted to do nothing more than to return to the nice, safe home of Afterlife and sleep for a week.

"I guess…" I start to say gently, breaking the silence and attracting Miranda's attention. "I guess it all comes down to you believing me or not. I'm not naïve enough to say 'trust me', but it all hinges on you. Maybe Liara can secure the body on her own, but do you want to take that risk?"

"Your agent could be trying to take the body from us after T'Soni retrieves it." Miranda says, but her voice is devoid of the cold intensity that was there a minute ago.

_She wants this. _I think numbly, unable to believe my luck. _She wants to cooperate._

I'm not anywhere naïve enough to think that this will be a lasting arrangement, but this means that I can guarantee that Cerberus's Lazarus Project resurrects Shepard, and it gives me a small peak into Cerberus's corner, so to speak.

As well, it tells me that things are still somewhat following the canon, rather than flying hilariously off-the-rails because of my (small) intervention thus far.

Even better, it looks like Cerberus doesn't know that I killed the members of their pet batarian smuggling/slaving ring.

While I can barely remember the adrenaline and terror filled events of that night, I know that Cerberus could sell me into batarian slavery for my actions that night.

I have to be honest about that scenario; I would probably break under that nightmare scenario.

"And what are we going to do with Shepard's body?" I retort. "Bury it? No, you guys have the plan and the ability to make it work, not us. All I'm doing here is… smoothing the process, if you will. I want to see Shepard's legacy fulfilled, and as much as I disagree with Cerberus's position, you guys are my best bet right now."

Miranda's gaze turns fierce at my mention of Cerberus, but I shrug and jerk my thumb towards the sealed door behind us.

"If you really wanted to keep it a secret, you wouldn't have painted your logo on the doors." I enlighten, keeping my voice low and sullen so as to not provoke her any more than necessary; I firmly acknowledge the presence of that pistol.

"I wasn't the one who ordered that done." Miranda said, almost casually. "But the name of my organization doesn't change anything, does it?"

"No, not really." I answer carefully. "Not for us, anyway."

"Then it's time for you to leave." Miranda says, waving her omni-tool and opening the door behind me.

"Ma'am?" questions the Cerberus operative (probably ex-military by his bearing and attitude) behind the door, his Avenger still far too close at hand for my comfort.

"Give him back his armor and guns, then see him out." Miranda orders, in a voice very reminiscent of Aria's 'command' voice.

"Yes ma'am." the Cerberus man acknowledges, keeping his rifle pointed in my direction as I slowly stand up.

We may be loosely working for the same purpose, but that doesn't mean either of us trust each other.

* * *

><p>Alone, I ran.<p>

I was in full armor and had my Carnifex in my right hand, but I was scared shitless as I moved through the grimy and trashed plaza, graffiti gang signs complementing flickering neon lights.

You see… on Omega, you quickly figured out the bad spots are.

And, needless to say, I was in a bad spot.

Omega isn't like any city I'd seen before, not like any of the cities I'd lived in or like any of the cities I'd visited.

Every city has its quirks, and I'd adjusted to them all in time. I'd known the crisp rain of Seattle, the hectic sprawl of Vancouver, and the humid bustle of Atlanta, but all of those cities lacked something that Omega had.

That crucial missing thing is, to put it simply, the third dimension.

Cities on Earth (at least, back when I was at Home) could only attempt to touch the third dimension.

The closest thing to Omega wouldn't be a city, it would be a naval supercarrier, with numerous bulkheads placed irregularly around strategic points, making it very easy to get lost (for anyone not used to it).

And while I had some of Omega's most wily residents teaching me the tricks and tools of survival on this crime-infested space station, I was born on a planet, not in space, and I wasn't used to navigating in this peculiar way.

Add in my experience with climbing and my Spectre-given hacking module, and I could effectively travel in any direction without too much difficulty.

The problems started to spring up when I tried to get somewhere in particular.

After a short and highly confusing hover-car ride (with blacked out windows) that made me forget precisely _where_ the Cerberus safehouse was, I'd been dropped off roughly one kilometer from Afterlife, and now I had to hoof the rest of the distance on foot.

Basically, I took a ladder down when I should have taken the ladder _up_, and because the architecture of Omega is haphazard, jumbled, and… well, completely fucked up, I was now in gang territory.

So I was running.

Granted, it was more a of jog, with my eyes glancing to and fro underneath my helmet, looking for threats, but I ran nonetheless.

The EMP had wrecked my fragile comm. systems, but luckily a quick repair-restore reboot restored most of my armor's functionality.

_**BLAM!**_

The high-powered round blasted a chunk off the crude concrete barrier I'd been running alongside.

I duck, caught in instinctive panic as gangers in a shade of purple pop out of doors and windows, peppering my shields with light fire from small pistols.

Four or five of the snap shots hit my shields, but they must be light pistols because the impacts only drain about a rough quarter of my shields.

"You're in Terrok space now, human!" crows a harsh and jubilant Turian voice behind me.

Barking laughs and howls echo in the cavernous enclosed street, and my heart sinks at how many voices there are.

_Fuck!_ I swear, sprinting for the closest alleyway. It was only two meters away, but –

_**BLAM!**_

The next shot smashes into my left shoulder, sending me tumbling. The warning tone squawks in my helmet, and my shields are gone, depleted by that last shot from what must be a sniper rifle.

I have just enough time to turn my fall into a diving shoulder roll, but my Carnifex flies free of my hand with a noisy clatter and my armor slides on the smooth metal of the floor.

My smooth diving roll falls apart into an ungainly tumble as my armor slides, smashing my back into the side-wall of the alley.

Grunting in pain, I collapse to the ground, my hands reaching around desperately for my pistol to no avail.

"Look at the prey, boys!" the Turian voice calls, as feet pound towards my location.

Rolling over, I grind my teeth as I suppress the pain in my lower back, my snarling face (beneath the helmet, of course) turning grim as I see a Turian silhouetted against the lights of the street.

A Mantis sniper rifle is clutched in the Turian's talons, but he doesn't appear to be using any kind of armor, instead wearing purple-daubed garb, though I can't rule out some form of kinetic barrier.

My Carnifex is farther away, outside of my grabbing reach, and the Turian knows it.

"Any last words?" the Turian asks.

I guess he's trying to sound intimidating, but his attempt to make his voice sound deeper only makes the effect comical.

Of course, I'm not laughing because he's got a sniper rifle pointed at me.

My mind goes blank, and I tense up.

I intentionally blink twice as I stare at the Turian, the red targeting reticle focusing in as I reach out with my right arm, squeezing my fist once in a mnemonic gesture and then thrusting my opening palm towards the bemused turian.

The Turian has opened his mouth to give one last taunt, but it dies on his lips as a suicidal homing drone rockets out of my omni-tool, the Incinerate tech power from the games coming to life in my palm; smashing into the bewildered turian with a eye-searing glare of orange-red light.

_**FOOM!**_

The turian falls back, screaming wildly as the drone erupts in a ball of superheated fire.

His shields briefly light up when the drone impacts, but the shields crack and break, spilling burning flames all over the Turian.

Unable to look away, I watch in numb horror as the flames devour the turian.

His purple gang-color clothes burn away almost instantly, and there's a gaping hole in the turian's chest where the drone impacted.

The plates on the outer edges of the gutted pit are boiling and crackling, the few unidentifiable internal organs are blackened, and the turian is effectively dead.

The Mantis rifle tumbles out of the turian's twitching talons, a loud clatter that resounds very noticeably in the silence after my desperate move.

I rush for my pistol, scrambling on both hands and feet to scoop up the Carnifex as my gorge surges up at the sickening scene. I struggle to keep my mouth shut and my stomach down.

"Boss!" roars another voice, as I hear boots banging against the floor.

Clambering to my feet as quickly as I can in the clumsy armor, I snap up my pistol to my eye level just as another two turians round the corner of the alley.

Unluckily for them, they ran right into my aim. The targeting reticle flashes red again, and I open fire.

_**BLAM! BLAM!**_

I squeeze the trigger twice, like Zaeed taught me, and both shots hit the first ganger in the upper chest, sending him flying back with a visible _punch_ as the shots connect.

The unshielded, unarmored ganger has no chance, goes down hard and stays down, while the second ganger sprints away at all possible speed.

_Those __**bastards!**_

Adrenaline races through my veins, accompanying an almost-alien feeling of complete _**rage**_.

"_Get back here bastard!_" I scream madly, running ungainly in my armor to the edge of the alley and squeezing off two wild shots into the multiple hurrying gangers in purple.

One of the shots flies wildly over the heads of the masses, but the second blows a chunk out of the rearmost turian, who lets out terrified shrieks as his terrified compatriots swiftly abandon him.

"_That's right! That's right, bastards!_" I shout aggressively at the retreating forms, waving my pistol as my shields reform around me.

As the rush from the adrenaline slows down and I catch my breath, I realize how screwed I am.

I'm still lost, in their territory, and I've just killed two of them. There is _no way_ they are just going to let me go.

I dash back to the first dead turian to grab the Mantis next to him, but one look at the charred pit that was once his chest and my stomach revolts.

Frantically, I drop my pistol and reach for my helmet, shaking hands seeming to take forever as my stomach churns and my vision tightens.

My helmet comes off just in time, and I hurl right next to the turian's corpse.

My chest seizing with agonizing coughs, I reel back on my haunches, _thudding_ to the ground as my vision sways.

The cold and logical part of my head snaps my focus back, and with trembling fingers I snatch the discarded Mantis rifle and fold it up, mag-clamping it to my back next to the ruined Vindicator.

Not trusting myself not to throw up again, I mag-clamp my helmet to the small of my back, and my sweaty skin tingles as it meets the warm and humid air of the somewhat-working environmental systems.

I get to my feet with quivering steps, scooping up my Carnifex as my vision throbs and pulses with my racing heartbeat, and then I'm gone.

I run, re-tracing my path quickly as I tear through the run-down gang district, moving as fast as I can before the gangers return.

Four heart pounding and nerve-racking minutes later, my eyes gratefully drink in the sight of Afterlife. I'm panting for breath, the sprinting steps shaking my brain around inside my head, and I've been running on pure adrenaline. In short, my body is crashing.

Anto is standing next to the usual Elcor bouncer, his Kenn-modified shotgun in hand, and with a jerk of his head and all four eyes widening, he notices me running towards him.

"Get out of the way!" Anto bellows, forcefully shoving his way through the unusually full line to clear a path for me.

"Are you alright?" he demands, wrapping a hand around my back and pushing me along towards the service door right next to the main entrance. "Let's get you inside, quick. Aria's been waiting for you; Kaldur got back an hour ago."

Relieved, I stumble my way through the door, feeling a great load of primal fear slide away as Anto rushes my shivering form towards the infirmary.

And that's when I notice the slick sight of blood dripping down the side of my chest plate, and start to feel the dull ache in my left shoulder.

* * *

><p>"How bad is it?" Anto demands as the doctor helps me onto the inspection table.<p>

The infirmary is a small but professional place run by an Asari doctor Aria poached from somewhere, who for some bizarre reason is called 'Holly', which is an oddly human name for an Asari.

Normally, I'd conduct some over-the-top analysis of her mannerisms and such, form my own wrong conclusions, and then ask Liselle or Anto for the real reason, but I guess the fatigue is catching up with me, because I can't seem to pick up anything about her.

Oh, _sure_, she's got this weird, familiar accent, but for some reason I just can't remember where that accent is from, even though it is _so _familiar I can taste it. It's like there's a block over my memory.

Anyways, now stripped free of my bulky armor, I'm sitting in just my undersuit (which is getting a little itchy) on a padded table wincing while Holly and Anto work on pulling off the upper half of the 'suit to get a look at the wound.

Off to the side, my discarded armor stands out starkly against the clinically sterile white paint job, and a few drops of escaped blood gleam vividly on the floor.

"Relax, Anto." the Asari doctor chuckles in her unusual accent. "The automatic medigel dispenser worked as Adin boasted it would. Another day with some more medigel, and only a scar will be left."

"What about the blood?" I ask slowly, gazing at the (admittedly small) trail of blood stained on the left side of the armor. "If the medigel fixed it all, then why was there so much blood?"

"I think the shot might have taken a chunk out of a small artery before the medigel stopped the bleeding." Holly explains briskly as her dexterous fingers undo another clasp.

"There's obviously no exit wound, so your armor slowed the round down just enough to prevent it from exiting. How much do you know about your body's arteries?"

"The heart is a pump, the arteries are the pipelines." I recite as best I can from memory. "If you hit a big enough artery, you can die in four seconds flat from blood loss. Is that about right?"

"More or less accurate. The pressure of your heart pumping blood meant that you lost blood rapidly for a moment, before the medigel stopped it." Holly informs me with a shrug as she turns away to grab something.

"You're quite lucky. From what Adin told me, your armor has a system that automatically applies medigel and works in conjunction with your undersuit to keep pressure on the wounds. That's a very unusual thing around the Terminus Systems."

"My armor… does that?" I repeat slowly, surprised. "Adin didn't tell me that."

_Whoa… I guess I'm a little tired_, I think to myself, as I struggle to focus on what is being said.

"Maybe that's because you kept asking about the armor and shields." Anto suggests, amused.

"Men." the asari jokingly disdains with a mocking huff. "Show them some shiny armor and _off _they go, regardless of - oh _shite_."

"Hey… I resemble-" I start to say, only to cut off with a wince as my vision sways. "What – what was - I feel…"

…_woozy…._

Glancing down, I see that Anto and Holly have managed to detach the upper 'suit from the lower suit, only to stop at the sight of dried blood on my skin.

_That's... not right... the medigel stopped the bleeding... so why is there blood... all the way down on my hip?_

"Anto, lay him down on the table _now!_" Holly orders, snatching up a surgical blade from a nearby tray.

Frenzied, Anto lowers me down onto the padded inspection table.

"Get your hands clear, I'm cutting the suit!" Holly barks at Anto, carefully slicing apart my suit so that she can see the wound.

"Is he still bleeding?" Anto questions urgently, as my vision starts swimming in and out and Holly rips away the restricting undersuit

"No, he'd have bled out by now - he must have lost it before the medigel kicked in. The medigel's supposed to activate instantly, so how did he bleed _this_ much?" Holly replies rapidly, her demeanor professional and controlled against Anto's evident panic.

_...the EMP, _I realize numbly.

_Oh __**fuck**__... the EMP..._

"Well - how much blood did he lose then?" Anto demands.

"I can't- "

_**DEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET**_

Holly spares a quick glance at her beeping and buzzing omni-tool and it's medial scan, then curses again.

"He's going into shock!" the doctor reports. "Lift his legs, _now_!"

Instinctively, I reach for the doctor, my hand wobbling and swaying weakly, just as Anto grabs it and shoves it back next to my torso.

"Don't move!" Anto orders. "Holly, do we have any blood for infusions?"

"We don't have any human blood stored!" Holly explains quickly as she starts rummaging through cabinets hurriedly. "We didn't have any _need_ for it until he arrived! Anto, I'll need you to…"

The rest of the doctor's words morph into an incomprehensible mush of sounds; Anto's response is similarly garbled.

I want to look at my shoulder, but all I can do is look blankly at Holly as my vision blurs and fades out.

* * *

><p>Omake Time!<p>

**The Daddy Issue **(by Dracco)

Liselle just glared at me, "I can't believe that you and my mother..."

"Well look at the bright side-"

"-There's a bright side?"

"Yes," I started using the patented Lifetime heart to heart voice, "while I do love your mother very, very much, I know I can never replace your father, so it's OK if you don't call me daddy."

She just gave me a look, before getting up and started to walk to the door.

"Unless you really want to I mean," I called out to her retreating back.

"Goodbye Nick."

"I mean, some girls are kinky that way."

"ARGGGCK!"

x

x

x

**Bugging the Bugs** or **Why one should _NOT_ plant a bug on Nick **(by Xeno Major and **Terrace)**

**Original post by Carrnage: **"Your gear is so bugged it's not even funny"

**I responded with two omake snips, and Terrace chipped in a third**

**(Omake 1) **

Yeah, I'm going to have to check for Cerberus bugs when I get back.

Though I might keep one, so that I can rant at the Illusive Man all the time.

"Sir, here's the latest report on the Project-"

"Hey, Jack, you there?"

"_Oh_... not _again_."

**Carrnage's Response as Follows: **you need another smack to remind you that these are not characters they are people and more than that they are ruthless people who won't hesitate to kill you if you keep annoying them.

(Omake 2)

Eh.

"Hey, Jack, is there anyone in the room with you?"

...

"You can't monitor _all_ of Cerberus's bugs, ergo _someone _other than Jack has to be listening to this, right?"

...

"It's okay, you don't need to respond. Just know that if the Illusive Man, AKA Jack, starts sending assassins after me, then I _won._"

"...What?"

"Because I annoyed him into killing me. I made myself important enough to be killed."

"Oh, that _asshole_."

"Oh, and Jack? I've been recording all of these little chats and posting them online. Say hello to the extranet!"

**At this point, Terrace contributed a third (sub)-Omake.**

(Omake 3)

Even funnier would be if you ranted about how stupid Cerberus scientists seem to be.

"As for Cerberus _science projects_, my God you people are too stupid to live. Is the term _scientist_ Cerberus code for dead body?"

"Commander Shepard ran across the aftermath of _so_ many projects that went wrong."

"That one where you guys messed with the Rachni? Killed all the scientists and took over the base."

"Thorian Creepers? Killed all the scientists and took over the base."

"Hey, who wants to bet that a Cerberus-made taco cart would kill all the scientists and take over the base?"

"A _taco cart_, people!"

x

x

x

**New Game + **or **The Domino Effect** (Xeno Major

**Original Statement by Protodermis: **Game over. Continue?

**My Response is as Follows:**

"We _have_ the technology. We _can _rebuilt him."

PLOT TWIST: Aria gives my body to Cerberus. I wake up two years later.

Without detailed knowledge brought on by a very deep meld (which we didn't have the time for), Aria and Vasir operate off of whatever information they remembered from my recap of the entire plot (which isn't much).

So I wake up to find Han'Gerrel, Khalisah Bint Sinan al-Jilani, Sidonis, Sparatus (Air-quotes Turian), and Gavin Archer in a coma.

Meanwhile, I find Henry Lawson dead, the Shadow Broker dead, Garm, Tarak, and Jaroth dead, Donovan Hock dead, Vido Santiago dead, and countless thousands (of things that got in their way) dead.

And in other news, Garrus (and squad), Thane Krios, Kasumi Goto, Zaeed Massani, and Jack all work for Aria in their respective specialities: Police work, Assassination, Theft and Blackmail, and Crowd Control (They had surprisingly little trouble convincing people Jack wasn't a stripper after the first idiot).

Then, Tela Vasir successfully contacted the Geth, but massively fucked up when the Geth asked for intel on the coming Reaper War. Instead of explaining things, she simply handed them my notes (omni-tool and hand-written) and told them to follow the instructions therein.

To hear the rest of the Galaxy tell it, it was the start of a bout of insanity second only to the Reapers. To hear the Geth (and me) tell it, 'Hilarity Ensued.' The Council, despite two years of time to debate The Event, is still confused shitless.

Oh, and everyone in the galaxy is now scared shitless of Aria T'loak and Tela Vasir running around assassinating everyone.

(Needless to say, that isn't _actually_ going to happen)


	9. Chapter 9

"Beware the green monkey!" Vasir whispers in my ear.

_I need to tell you something!_ I try to say, but the words don't come out.

Turning, I try to catch Vasir, to tell her that I need to tell her something (though I know not what), but too late; she has vanished, along with the dull metal of Afterlife.

Then, suddenly, I'm standing in my House. There isn't any motion or blur to indicate movement; one moment I am in the halls of Afterlife's secure levels, the next I am standing in the hall of my Father.

_No._

_No… this is... wrong_.

_Isn't this wrong?_

Quietly, I wander through my House. For once, my mind is silent and still, no thoughts bouncing around my head.

It should be serene, but something _ticks _away at me.

Like… where are my shoes?

I glance down at my bare feet, but as I do my suspicion floats away. _Of course I'm not wearing shoes_, I chuckle to myself_, I'm inside_.

My suspicion vanished instantly; that worries me, but I don't _feel_ worried. It is a bizarre dichotomy, as if my emotions and my body have been separated.

Why… why is that old couch over there?

We threw that couch away years ago; it was too full of dog hair for my brother's allergies.

Again, my righteous suspicion vanishes before I can verbalize it.

Why _shouldn't_ the couch be there? It'll _always_ be there.

_Is this a dream?_

My suspicion arises again, and this time I get to open my mouth, just about to shout out the Truth, that this is a dream.

But then the words just… vanish. My mouth opens and shuts, without saying anything.

The Silence is starting to disturb me.

_This must be a dream_, I think. I dare not say the words aloud, but I know it to be true.

I am Home.

Quietly, I pass the stuffed bobcat, peaking into the well-lit and warm room that served as my Dad's den. It was a place of importance, where I was taught crucial lessons and where we watched football (at my families insistence) and hockey (at mine).

Three leather recliners rest in the small (yet somehow not cramped) room, before a large television. Two of the chairs are Chesterfield knock-offs, with studded buttons indented in the leather, but the third (closest to the gas fireplace) is mine. Technically, it is Papa Frank's (my paternal grandfather), but I sit in the most.

My breath bated, I carefully set myself down in the Chair, leaning back and pressing the legs out. I have good memories of sitting in this cozy Chair and writing or reading, my mind always full of some fantastical and bizarre idea while the Chair kept me in perfect comfort.

But when I sit down, I feel no pleasure, no restful peace settling over me. The Chair is not comfortable or uncomfortable; it gives me no feelings of relaxation or ease.

I stand up, knowing that I should be angry, but of course my emotions have been cut away, so I feel nothing.

This is _not_ my Chair. This is _not_ my Dad's den. This is _not_ my House.

Glancing around, I almost expect to see my family enter the den.

Dad, tall and stentorian, would tell me that I was being silly and that I needed to get back to work.

Mom, short and intelligent, would tell me (with a warm and welcoming tone) that I could do whatever I wanted, despite her own feelings on the matter.

My Sister, about my height and very insistent about that fact, would enter with a loud _He~eeey! _or a _Nick-O!_ and would immediately plop down on the closest chair (wrapped in her usual assortment of blankets and warm clothes, despite the already warm temperature), and start chattering about everything that was going on in her life.

My Brother would sit down, glancing disappointedly at my computer, and try to get me to care about his usual topics: nutrition, working out, importance of women, perhaps the gun laws or maybe economics. He would tell me that he was afraid that I would waste my youth away on my stories, that they had no possible positive impact on my life.

But they don't.

My Family is _not here_. This is _not_ my House.

This is a gilded cage, designed to make me happy and content.

I squat down, sitting on my haunches, and hold my hand next to the crackling fire; but I don't feel any extra heat.

The House is bright and vibrant, as colorful and distinct as it was in life, but there is no sound, smell, or temperature.

I roam through the House, passing happy faces in framed photos, smiling sadly at the nostalgia of being Home again.

The pleasure is fleeting, because I know that I'll have to go soon, I'll have to leave, and –

* * *

><p>"He's waking up."<p>

Wincing at the sudden light, I groan as some joyous chattering starts up around me.

"Shut up…" I grumble lightly, but the answering chuckles mean that nobody takes me seriously.

"You've been sitting around long enough, punk. Time to get up." Grizz rumbles, tapping me twice on the head with a talon.

"Fuck off, Grizz." I return sourly, as I take a look around the room.

Grizz was sitting on a counter off to the side in full armor, rumbling in a content tone (I think, anyway, it's hard to tell with turians), while Holly the Asari doctor was putting away a futuristic looking IV drip. A glance to my arm shows a small dab of medigel, presumably where the line was hooked up.

Despite the decent size of the infirmary, having Grizz loom over me in full armor makes the room seem a lot smaller than it really is.

_Wait, wasn't there something important I had to tell them?_

_Oh, shit, Vasir!_

"_Where's Vasir?_" I demand harshly from Grizz.

The turian recoils a little at my tone, sending a questioning look at Holly, before shrugging.

"She's with Aria, in the club. Why?" Grizz answers rapidly, hopping off his perch and moving closer.

"I need to talk to them, as soon as possible. Tell Aria that this takes priority over everything else." I order.

"You know it isn't a small thing to pull Aria away from business." Grizz reminds me, staring straight into my eyes, as if testing the seriousness of my demand.

"I don't give a damn." I reply heatedly, staring straight at him. "This is more important than anything she's dealing with. Tell her that it's a matter concerning the Collectors, and get them both to the safe room as fast as you can. Every minute matters, so _go!_"

Grizz gives me another intense look, then nods once and runs out the door of the infirmary.

I try to sit up, but my left shoulder starts protesting just as Holly rushes over to push me back down.

"You're in no position to go anywhere, young man." Holly reprimands sternly. "If you strain that shoulder and start the bleeding again, you'll die in ten seconds, and none of your bluster will save you."

"Then get me a sling for my arm!" I demand. "I'm going to talk to Aria if it's the _last thing I do_."

"It _damned well might be!_" Holly barks back, her accent (_British? _Where the hell does an _Asari _get a _British accent?_) very evident as she raises her voice to match mine.

"Then I'm gonna die." I snap back, any joking joviality gone in the seriousness of this situation. "So get me a sling so that I _don't _die."

Holly glares at me for another half-second, then busies herself getting a sling around my left arm. As she does, she quickly explains the nature of my wound.

"You were shot around the this area _here_." Holly informs, pressing a blue finger below my left shoulder, just behind the armpit. "The shot damaged your radial nerve and managed to completely transect your left axillary artery, which is where the blood came from. I don't know _why_, but your suit's automatic medi-gel dispenser was delayed in administering the dose to the wound, so you lost quite a bit of blood."

"You mentioned not having any human blood stored." I remember faintly as Holly tightens the sling around my arm, pinning it in place.

"This is _Omega_, boy." Holly retorts with a grim smile as she secures the sling. "If Aria wants O-negative donor blood in a hurry, no one on this Goddess-forsaken station is going to refuse."

"Alright, but what about the – _ugh_ – nerve damage?" I grind out as Holly helps me to my feet, my whole body lurching as I take my first step.

"Don't worry about nerve damage just yet. I'll tell you about it later." Holly informs me. "What was more pressing was that artery. When it was cut, the ends retracted from the tension and disappeared into the rest of your body. I had to –"

"Wait, wait." I interrupt, looking at Holly in horror. "My artery was _cut_?"

"That's what transected means." Holly replies severely. "And Aria told me you were a smart boy."

"I've never heard _transected_ before, but that doesn't mean jack shit about my level of intellig – no, no, _no_, what about the _retraction?_"

"I'll make it simple, then." Holly muttered as I walk out of the infirmary, taking care not to jostle my arm too much.

Of course, as soon as the door slides open for me I remember that they had to cut away the upper half of my undersuit to get to my shoulder.

"Hey there, are you joining us on stage?" an asari dancer in skimpy attire cat-calls to me as I stomp past, gritting my teeth while Holly talks about joining the two ends of my artery back together.

The other dancers giggle a little, and I have to remember that despite the age of the asari (averaging around one hundred years old, I believe), they have the emotions and maturity of college students.

Of course, _these _particular asari seem to be closer to the intellectual age of a _middle-schooler._

"Stupid sex-maniac sparkly-bitches." I grumble irritably as I pass them. "Can't you ladies find something better to do?!"

It isn't _my_ fault that – fuck, actually, it _is_ my fault that I got shot and wound up in this situation.

And of course, I have to go through the halls of Afterlife's secured section just as the shift changes, bare-chested and wearing the lower half of my undersuit, which admittedly is very tight fitting and loosely resembles leather-y fetish suit.

I mean, what messed-up Alliance engineer decided that the undersuit for the Marine's armor should look like _fucking bondage gear? _What the hell was he thinking?

_Well_, I reflect darkly to myself, _it's true that when it rains, it __pours_.

_And it's not going to get better anytime soon, is it?_

Grumbling under my breath like an old man confronted with in-laws, I moved as fast as I could to Aria's safe room.

It's not that I have some difficulty physically moving my legs (well, other than the blood-loss drowsiness); it's the problem of Holly holding me back.

"I'm not moving the arm, let go." I snap impatiently, striding hurriedly through the dull and dingy metal corridors as Holly held onto my (good) right arm. "There's no risk of ripping the stitches if I don't move the arm, right? So _let me go_, and I'll get out of your hair!"

Holly quirked an eye-ridge at that last statement, but insists on holding on to my right arm.

Highly annoyed, I twist my arm to get out of her grip, but Holly's nimble fingers blur in speedy motion and I wince as Holly pins my arm against my back in a hold.

"If you _want_ me to pop your shoulder out of it's socket, by all means, _continue_." Holly says scathingly. "I am _your doctor_, and I expect you to _follow my advice_."

"Dammit, doc." I grunt, my pain increasing as she lifts my restrained arm higher. "This is _important!_"

"So is your health." Holly retorts. "Despite how little _you_ seem to care about it."

"Doc, if I don't tell Aria this intel _now_, then we are, as a whole, _fucked_. Afterlife will fail, Omega will be destroyed, and _we – will – all – die._" I explain angrily. "I cannot stress this any higher – I mean, this _cannot_ be any more important - my intel I mean!"

"Be that as it may," Holly replies smoothly, pulling me around by my arm so that she can glare at me eye to eye. "I put a large amount of effort into _saving your life_ _– once – _and I do _not_ want to do have to do it _again_. You are going to _walk_ to the safe room. No faster than this."

"Authoritarian Napoleonic dictator." I mutter as we resume walking at an absurdly slow pace.

After that friendly chat, we walk in silence the remainder of the way, to no one's surprise.

Two minutes later, I bang my fist along the side of the metal door twice. There's a slight pause, then a tiny metal cover slides away, revealing the retina scanner. Hunching a little, I open my left eye as _wide_ as possible, fighting the urge to blink as the scanner… well, _scans_.

A few seconds waiting later, the door opens up, revealing another door just four feet away and Grizz leaning on the wall, his Carnifex casually aimed at us from hip-height.

"You can go, doctor." Grizz instructs politely, waving the Carnifex to the side.

"I have to make sure that Nick doesn't tear open the bonding agent and re-start the bleeding." Holly argues, crossing her arms and staring resolutely into Grizz's barefaced plates.

"Aria says _no_, doctor." Grizz says, his serious tone and unchanged face giving weight to his words.

Holly opens her mouth to argue once more, but shuts it with a scowl after a glance at the Carnifex pointed at her stomach.

"I'll check in later, doc, don't you worry." I reassure her, but my mind is already racing towards this meeting, and I think Holly can see that.

Holly sighs, but obligingly turns around and walks away. Grizz and I watch her for another couple of seconds, making sure she doesn't turn around, then Grizz smacks a wall-button and the outer door shuts, closing us in.

Grizz doesn't hit the button to open up the next door, though.

I sigh.

"No time for this, Grizz." I say tiredly, but Grizz just stares at me.

"What did Aria call you when you first met?" Grizz interrogates, keeping the pistol pointed at me.

"A stupid young punk." I say sardonically. "I don't fucking remember, it was a _month _ago Grizz!"

"You know I can't let you in until you give a good answer." Grizz reminds me, his tone brooking no argument.

"Okay, how 'bout this then?" I reply irritably, raising my chin and glaring up at Grizz's head above mine. "Vasir proved that you were misled when we were aboard Aria's ship, and it turns out that you were cast out of turian society because of another turian's corruption; a great _fucking_ argument for a meritocracy, eh?"

Grizz doesn't say anything for a minute, merely narrowing his eyes as I glare stubbornly at him just like Holly did a minute ago.

"Alright." Grizz admits finally. "Go in."

"Thanks." I say. "Sorry for the crack about your government, that was a bit too harsh."

"The Hierarchy hasn't been my government for a long time, pup." Grizz sighs. "Just get in there."

I nod, then turn to face the door's keypad. Quickly, I type in my nine-letter password (a little awkwardly with only my right hand), which matches up with my retina scan to open the inner door.

Scratching my bound arm (I didn't know that slings _itched_ so much), I stride into the safe room with as much pride as I can muster after my somewhat failed excursion.

There's no nice way to put it: I got suckered by an EMP just like Zaeed always told me, then I pissed off Cerberus, and _then_ I almost bled out when I took a wrong turn into gang territory.

"Nick." Vasir greets me warmly, wearing her usual casual wear of a grey sleeveless jacket (with white fur collar, anime-style) over a dark body-glove. "How's the arm?"

"Not now." I interrupt impatiently. "_You _need to get to Galadien as fast as you can."

There's a slight pregnant pause while Vasir glances at Aria, seemingly confused.

"Why?" Aria asks, cutting in before I can start off on another of my already well-known rants.

"Because Liara T'Soni and her drell Feron are going to Galadien to try to steal information from the Shadow Broker base there, and I need Vasir to go along with them so that I can steal as much information from the Broker as possible, while the two idiots find out where Shepard's body is!"

"I'm… just going to go now." Grizz interjects quickly, having recognized this as a conversation above his metaphorical clearance level.

The inner door shut behind him with a pneumatic _hiss_, giving a moment to catch my breath.

"Nick, I don't know what you are talking about."

"Liara T'Soni," I grind out, painfully slow. "And her accomplice. A double agent named Feron. Are going to the Shadow Broker's base. On the planet Galadien. To find out where the Shadow Broker is keeping Commander Shepard's body. Before he sells it to the Collectors. You. Need. To. Go. _Right. __**Now.**_"

"Alright, but I never heard of the planet Galadien." Vasir replies quickly, perhaps seeing the _extreme irritation_ on my face right now.

"The Shadow Broker's Base." I bark, fully aware of the weight of this problem.

"The one with the glowy humanoid hologram of the Shadow Broker, in a big, long room full of machinery. If you go through the Mass Relay without the Shadow Broker's sentries knowing that you are supposed to arrive, they will attack you, regardless of affiliation. It's in a –_ fucking_– jungle, for _fuck's sake._"

"Do you mean _Alingon_?" Vasir asks, slightly skeptical. "I don't know how you got _'Galadien' _out of _Alingon_, but that's the only base that has the hologram you described. But… Nick, why do I need to go there?"

"Because Tazzik, the Shadow Broker's hitman, is there _right now_ with Shepard's body!" I say impatiently, growling mentally as they don't understand.

Then Aria speaks up.

"Shepard's body is on Omega, Nick."

"Huh? What?" I return confusedly, my angry mood stopped dead.

"I was going to tell you, but you wouldn't shut up." Aria states, her cold tone telling me exactly what she thinks of my babbling. "Whatever information you have, no matter where you got it, you _are wrong_."

"What Aria means, Nick," Vasir clarifies gently, "is that we're not so sure about the source of your intelligence."

_What._

"I'm not wrong!" I protest, eyes wide in shocked surprise. "I was right about the Collectors, about Kenn, about Tevos, so – so – I'm not wrong!"

"Your prediction was _wrong, _Nick." Aria cuts in uncaringly as she stands up from the Couch. "You might be right about other things, but you've proven that you are _not_ _infallible_."

"It's backwards!" I try desperately, holding up my hands as if to ward off an attack. "I _knew_ this was gonna happen, but I thought the events were the other way around!"

"Explain." Vasir instructs, waving Aria back to her seat gently. "Calm down, take your time, and explain _everything_."

"Okay." I mutter slowly, closing my eyes and breathing deeply.

_Be Zen, monkey-boy… channel your inner thoughts until focus provides the key to victory:_

…_Cookies!_

"I think," I say slowly as I carefully sit down in my usual recliner, tossing that last thought away. "I think that I have _mixed up_ two events, two events that are in a series of comics back Home. I believe that, because issues of comics are sold in a… _confusing_ manner, I jumbled up the events, due to not reading the comics in the correct order."

I pause, taking a moment to turn the events over in my memory.

"The _proper_ sequence of events is that Liara and Feron talk to the Illusive Man, then go to Afterlife to talk to you, Aria. Afterwards, they travel to a docking port controlled by the Blue Suns, transferring Shepard's body to Tazzik. After that, _then_ they travel to… Alingon, where they wreck part of the base and retrieve the body; but Feron gets left behind." I explain softly, rubbing my head.

Maybe I should be taking it easier, considering what I just went through.

Well, I figure that if Holly allowed me out of her sight, then I'm not going to just fall apart into a collection of meaty pieces.

Aria glances back at Vasir, quirking a tattooed eyebrow in question. Vasir shrugs, then turns back to me.

"Give us more detail, Nick." Vasir orders, her gaze hardening and reminding me of her Spectre-status. "Everything you can remember."

"The comic didn't do a good job of accurately showing the time intervals." I realize and say, my breath catching as a bit of my panic starts rising up again.

"Aria, you need to get back up to the club, because Liara might be coming up any second now. She's wearing a… slim set of asari armor, with…uh… grey and blue as the primary colors, with a… uh, an orange-ish tint on some sections. A batarian sitting at one of the upper tables will make a grab at Liara, and his volus… 'business partner', I guess, will ask Feron what the price is for Liara."

Another slow, calming breath, and I look up, meeting Aria's cool gaze.

My mind urges me to look away impulsively, frightened instinctively by the sheer _power _behind those steely asari eyes, but I keep staring, unwilling to give ground.

"Liara, of course, takes exception to this and smears the batarian against the wall. Anto's going to refuse Feron admission, but Feron will claim that Anto is selling information about your meetings, so Anto lets him through. _You_ interrupt, saying that you already know about Anto, but that you like him, so he gets a free pass. Liara tries to get the info about Shepard out of you, but it doesn't work until she mentions the Collectors, at which point you have a… uh… _intense _reaction to that, and you give her the info."

"I'll talk like I want to talk, Nick." Aria says icily, no doubt annoyed the mentions about her emotions.

Aria doesn't like people knowing that she is mortal, and I just talked about that emotional weakness in front of a Spectre; even though Vasir is on our side, the old habits of paranoia are hard to break.

"Well… you're the boss." I reply submissively, before continuing in a stronger voice. "I mean, I can see two ways to play this; either you act strong and all-knowing, or you show a little emotional weakness."

"The first way might give Liara an impression of how powerful we are." Vasir hypothesizes, leaning back in her asari lounger and tilting her head (I guess it's an asari thinking gesture, instead of a human gesture of doubt). "While the second might make her ignore you."

"Thank you, Tela, I can see that myself." Aria says dryly, but it's good-natured. "Will you be coming up, Nick?"

The question catches me by surprise.

"Hmm…"

On one hand, I try to only go up to Afterlife when I'm armored up, and that's not an option with my arm in a sling and my undersuit shredded.

See, we'd been having a rash of bar brawls recently, which Garka pointedly theorized to be the result of having a human bouncer. Personally, I don't think Garka will ever like me, despite Anto being a good friend.

Of course, I'd be right next to the Couch, by Grizz and Garka, so I doubt that anybody would try anything.

"Yeah, I'd like that." I answer wearily, resting my head back on the recliner. "Just… head on up without me, I've got to get dressed first."

"You sure?" Aria asks lightly, a slight teasing tone in her voice. "You might not be as muscular as Zaeed, but with _that_ outfit, you don't have to be."

I stare at her, my face stony and un-amused.

"Aria, I understand that you want to make me feel at ease, but I am not – at ease, that is… In last the four hours, I've been kicked in the head, almost killed by Cerberus, shot in the shoulder, lost a large amount of my blood, watched a man _burn alive_, and had to face the fact that _I was_ _wrong_. Please, I'm not in a joking mood right now." I explain as calmly as I can, my hands starting to shake again while I see the grim, hollow corpse of the turian in that back alley.

Aria nods, almost respectfully, and smoothly stands up and walks out of the room, her cold mask as the Pirate Queen sliding easily into place.

It's quiet for a moment, then Tela Vasir sighs.

"Aria doesn't have a lot of opportunities to be friendly, Nick, not on Omega. She has to be harsh and unforgiving to everyone, even Liselle." Vasir informs me gently, offering a sad smile. "You probably can't see it, but she's always fighting to keep Omega under control. She's lived for a hundred years thinking that every day might be her last; and _nobody_ could handle that."

"So why'd she joke around?" I ask sluggishly, my head starting to ache again. "Because she felt sorry for a useless human punk?"

"Nick, you've given her enough power and blackmail to rule this station uncontested for a thousand years, if she wanted." Vasir flatly states, before continuing in a more friendly tone. "She's happy about that, but she's been fighting for too long, and she doesn't want to lose that power. After you reassured her about your… otherworldly knowledge, you basically guaranteed her power."

"So what?" I ask tiredly, sighing. "You want me to play nice with the Pirate Queen of Omega? The woman who holds Councilor Tevos by the balls?"

"No." Vasir says, catching my eyes with a serious look. "I want you to show her that you're fine. I want you to show her that you have her back, literally, if she calls for it."

"…I … I can do that." I slowly answer, nodding my head.

"Good." Vasir says with the bright flash of her smile. "That means I can have the front. Nothing beats post-mission melding."

"Vasir… I've got a question." I ask hesitantly.

"Go ahead."

"How do you… deal with it?" I question quietly, looking down at my lap.

"Your first kill?" Vasir asks gently, standing up from her chair.

She moves lithely over to the side of my recliner; were I not about to succumb to a bout of depression, my eyes would be glued to her form-fitting body-glove.

Sitting down on the arm of the recliner, Vasir gently lays a gloved hand on my exposed left shoulder and just sits there.

It's silent for a few moments, then Vasir speaks, talking softly and quietly, her tones reminding me of my old mentor, Mr. Anderson, the wise Senior Master Emeritus from my boarding school.

"Generally, most sentients puke on their first kill. It's not a question of upbringing or of beliefs, it's just that most people, regardless of species, are compassionate enough to care for their victim."

"I've killed before." I mutter numbly, my mind replaying the scene over and over in my mind, the flames licking up the gaudy purple clothes of the turian, who just _howls_ in agony. "Not at Home, but I killed those batarians on my first day here. I killed gangers when I was with Liselle, going to Marsh's. I didn't throw up either of those times… does that – does that mean-"

Vasir slides over the chair and engulfs me in a hug, the soft fur of her anime-esqe outfit tickling my skin.

"No." Vasir interrupts, her arms tenderly holding me close. "It means that you got lucky. You didn't have time to look at the kill, to emotionally comprehend what you did. It _doesn't mean _that you have a mental condition. Now… tell me what happened with Cerberus."

"It wasn't Cerberus." I answer robotically, my mind on autopilot. "I was coming back from – from where Cerberus dropped me off, but I got lost. I… I wound up in a gang district. I think it was run but a group called, uh, the Terrocks, but – I don't know. They had a rifle, a Mantis I think. I took two shots, and the second did _this_ to my shoulder – or my armpit, I don't know – and my gun was gone. The turian – ringleader? Fuck, I don't know – he – he came closer, so I used the fire-drone, that STG thing you got me."

"It worked, then." Vasir murmurs, her tone relaxing and friendly. "Fire has always been a brutal tool."

"First his clothes caught fire." I remember mechanically, as if my mind is detached from my mouth. "Then his plates melted… and then he stopped screaming. Tela… Tela, there was only a _pit_ where his chest should have been. Just a burnt crater, and… and then he was dead."

"It was kill or be killed, Nick." Vasir reminds me gently, pulling away from the hug and looking at me with a kind gaze, the kind of look that shouldn't appear on the face of a cold and professional Spectre. "You saved yourself. There will always be someone who wants to kill you, someone who needs to be killed before he _can_."

I don't have an answer for that.

"The Asari think that the universe is inherently good. They teach naïve Maidens that life is pretty and sacred, and all the experienced Matriarchs keep their mouths shut about the horrors of the galaxy. The truth is, kid, that deep down we're all still animals. We may float around on sparkling spaceships and talk in flowing languages, but we're still the same creatures that clawed a path to civilization over the bodies of everything else.

"The only thing I can tell you, kid, is to keep your head on. To be _better_ than this station. On Omega… it's always a fight for survival. If everything was perfect, you'd be back on Earth, studying law or medicine and living a life far away from criminals and Reapers. I wish there was some way for you to keep your world-view, but the fact is that you've got to close your heart a little.

"It's true that the killing gets easier, the more you do it. What they don't say is that it's a slippery road. Even before Saren, Spectres knew that the path we walk leads straight into Hell. I try not to kill often, and when I do, I only do it if I know it's right. The turian you killed sounds like a gang killer, the type of person who doesn't care about who he kills or how. Right now, you're thinking that the turian was just some innocent bystander, trying to get some money for his dying mother or something similarly sappy.

"I wasn't there, kid. I can't tell you if the turian was innocent or not. From the sounds of it, he wasn't a nice guy. You've got to remember that this turian could have killed dozens of people before, innocent or not. He could have killed _hundreds_ of people after he finished you off. Instead, _you_ killed _him_, and now he's gone. Besides, you're helping us prevent galactic extinction; I doubt this ganger was working for a goal like that."

"Vasir – Tela… how can you be so calm about this?" I demand quietly, feeling as if the weight of the entire galaxy is on my back. "Is this – is this really so simple to you, after all your years?"

"Simple?" Vasir snorted, a gesture that didn't fit her asari physique at all. "Kid, you met me while I was _legally_ searching through your memories. I thought at the time that you were just the next in a series of bodies lining the path to a 'better world.' Don't forget that I was also trading favors with the Shadow Broker, all for what _I_ _thought_ to be the greater good."

"I guess… if the world was simple, it wouldn't need people like us." I reply slowly.

Vasir chuckles and hands me a pill and a glass from the bar (full of water, luckily).

"What's this?" I ask, a little suspicious.

"It's a pain reliever." she informs me. "Holly gave it to me on the off-chance that she'd be kicked out."

"Heh. Smart girl." I chuckle, popping the smooth (it's a bit weird, to be honest) capsule into my mouth and chasing it down with some water.

"She's four hundred years old, kid." Vasir chuckles as well, rifling a hand through my knotted hair. "She's quite a bit older than you."

"Let's be honest, darlin', _everyone_ who works here is older than me." I groan, clambering slowly to me feet. "Now, can you help me to my room? I want to get a good look at Liara, just in case something doesn't match up."

Vasir nods, a slight smile to her face as I stand back up and start moving again.

"You know," Vasir mentions casually as she helps me out the secure, airlock-like door. "Aria's going to want to double-check that information."

"I'll answer anything she asks." I say, shrugging as I stride out of the security checkpoint and into the halls, which are now blessedly free of giggling dancers.

"I think she has a different idea in mind." Vasir says, with another little chuckle.

"Oh? What do you mean by – fuck."

* * *

><p>"Your friend is better looking than your usual company, Feron." Aria calls out as she gracefully strides down from her Couch. "Which means she can't be your friend."<p>

I exhale as quietly as I can, reclining on the Couch. When Anto had told me over the comm. that Liara had arrived, I'd rushed up to get to Aria's meeting room as fast as I could, but I didn't want Liara or Feron knowing that.

The meeting room was upstairs from the club's floor, safe from 'casual bystanders', and was semi-safe from listening devices. It was a simple enclosed room, and the only guards Aria had inside were Grizz and me. It was, in short, the place to meet Aria when you had something important to discuss but wanted to keep it quiet.

And, of course, Aria had another one of her Couches in here.

Vasir had managed to help me get dressed in record time, slapping on another medi-gel patch and throwing away that sling. I didn't want to make Aria appear weaker by having a lieutenant appear so obviously injured (if I could even be considered a lieutenant, that is).

I'd protested, of course, thinking that I was going to tear open the bonding agent holding my artery together, but Vasir had simply chuckled at my inexperience.

"Doctors are all the same," Vasir had explained to me as we strode into my tidy room. "They tell you to not risk re-opening a wound and 'make it any worse', but there's not much chance of that actually happening. The bonding agent that's holding you together is made of a specialized derivative of omni-gel, Nick, so don't worry about ripping out any stiches."

"So the spook talk is just so that she can scare me into submission?" I ask, brows furrowed in confusion as I pull on a new pair of tan climbing pants one-handed (dressing yourself almost completely one-handed is something I picked up in rowing).

"Pretty much." Vasir answers with a shrug. "That stuff will hold together under a lot of rough situations. You're only going to be sitting down, so you'll be fine."

So here I am, leaning back on the left-hand side of Aria's Couch, watching her smoothly take control of the discussion, the perfect mix of lethality and grace.

Unable to help myself, I shiver as Aria reminds me that I'm working for a criminal warlord.

No matter how useful Aria is to my plans, I can't help but think that if I hadn't had my valuable intel, she'd have calmly tossed my corpse into the waste vents without a second thought.

Anto leaves us alone with Liara and Feron, and the business talks start.

Liara leaves the talking to Feron, but that doesn't mean she's idle. She looks around, her bright eyes glancing at Grizz, then at… _me?_

_Shit, I'm looking at her!_

Our eyes meet, and Liara's narrow in suspicion.

Panicked, I shift my gaze to Feron, but Liara's still staring straight at me.

Unbidden, my left hand twitches once.

Feron and Aria are still discussing business, so I start listening, hoping that Liara will lose interest quickly.

"And _you_… I know you. You're one of Shepard's crew." Aria is saying, lifting Liara's head back towards her, all whilst wearing a predator's grin. "I wonder if you could speak when _Shepard _was alive? Or has Nick over there stolen your voice?"

Huh? That wasn't in the comic.

Oh, right. 'Cause of me.

_Butterflies… wonderful, the first of the butterflies._

Liara crosses her arms, matching Aria's cold glare easily as the Pirate Queen steps around her, as if inspecting Liara for a dancer's position. Liara's glare only seems to encourage Aria, as her grin widens, turning almost shark-like.

"The Shadow Broker may be powerful, but Omega is _mine_. Of course I know about the transfer – but I'm not a running a charity here. Tell me, Feron, why's the Broker so interested in Shepard?" Aria interrogates, smoothly taking control of the situation.

"I – I don't know, Aria; that's what we're trying to-" Feron tries to bluff, but his slight hesitation is his downfall.

Well, that, and my intel.

Heh.

Aria's leading Feron around like a deluded puppy, always having control of the conversation, every movement being watched carefully, lest she turn on him.

Oddly enough, _Liara_ is controlling her emotions better than Feron is, though that might just be because she doesn't fully understand how _dangerous_ Aria is.

"_Bullshit!_" Aria retorts, turning away from the unlikely pair with a smirk on her face.

Unseen to Aria, Liara balls up her fists in a surprisingly human gesture of anger, gritting her teeth at Aria's manner. Okay, so maybe Feron _is_ controlling his emotions better than she is.

"You might be a two-bit information broker, Feron, but even _you_ aren't that incompetent. You figured out what the Broker wants even before you agreed to help little Liara here, like any half-decent information broker would. So tell me, Feron, what does the Broker wants with Shepard?" Aria questions, turning back to face the duo just as Liara steps forward.

"Because the Shadow Broker wants to sell Shepard's body to the Collectors!" Liara snaps, standing up to Aria with an expression of righteous anger. "They're the ones that want Shepard's body!"

"And here I thought that was _you_." I mutter under my breath.

The sound of my voice unexpectedly carries, and everyone turns to look straight at me. Liara and Feron looked a little confused why I spoke, while Aria's giving me a cautious look, as if judging whether or not to allow me to continue.

"Something you'd like to say, Nick?" Aria offers, waving a hand as if to give me the floor.

"No – not really, boss." I reply quickly, cheeks blushing a little at the sudden attention.

"Oh, but I insist." Aria says, every word making my heart sink further. "Given that you're my expert on the Collectors, it's about time you earned your keep."

I lock eyes with her, horrified that she's putting _me_ on the spot, but Aria shows no sign of yielding.

"Well," I say, sitting upright and directing my words towards Liara. "We don't know much about the Collectors, but there are a few things that we _do_ know, chiefly that their mastery of genetics and biology give them unparalleled, uh, skills at using biological warfare. They are known, obviously by their name, for collecting individuals with rare genetic traits. It's possible that they could want Shepard so that they can study, uh, what made her so… well, _unique_."

"We don't need a history lesson, Nick." Aria mocks, tilting her head to the side in amusement at my uncomfortable squirming (not that there are any _physical_ signs, that is). "Tell them what they need to know, and we'll send them on their way."

"Okay, uh, right." I nod, mind racing furiously as I try to figure out what Feron and Liara would need. "Um… individual Collectors can be, uh, possessed, for lack of a better term. You can tell this by their four eyes, which start to _glow_ orange-ish. They only speak when they are possessed, and, uh, that's the only time that they can use biotics. When 'possessed', they seem to be capable of instantaneous communication with _any other _possessed Collector, so watch out for that."

"Nick…" Aria warns, crossing her arms. "Back to the point, _now._"

"Right, sorry. From what we know, the Blue Suns are passing Shepard on to the Shadow Broker's men, who will then pass Shepard to the Collectors. The Blue Suns are making the trade in the lower… uh, _ore works_, if I remember correctly. That right, Aria?" I explain, passing the conversation back to Aria as quickly as I can.

"The old ore processing plant, hanger four." Aria informs Feron. "You should go now."

"Just one moment!" Liara refuses, taking another step forward and pointing at... _me_.

Grizz snaps his rifle up to bear on Liara, but she doesn't look like she cares about that.

"How do you know so much about the Collectors?" Liara demands. "And how do I know you're not working for _them_?"

"B_eeee_…_cause_ I want to live?" I answer slowly, partly out of hesitation and partly out of mocking. "Agents of the Collectors don't last in the long run. Besides, I get all my vices here at Afterlife, so there's no real point in leaving."

"Well put." Aria remarks sarcastically, before directly her cold glare back at Liara. "This meeting is over."

* * *

><p>Sighing, I carefully sit down on my chair (it's <em>mine<em> by this point, and I'll shoot anyone who disagrees), taking care not to jostle my left arm.

The secure room inside Afterlife has been sealed once again, giving us complete isolation from the watching eyes of rest of the Omega. Vasir, who's been camping in here doing some business over a safeguarded computer, is happy to see me, and greets me with a smile and a curt nod.

"Where's Aria?" I ask Vasir curiously, having seen the Pirate Queen depart for the inner sections of Afterlife a few minutes before I did.

While Aria had gone inside, I'd simply stood in her lofty perch and gazed out over the teeming crowds of Omega, to try to remind myself what I was fighting for.

The club was full and noisy, and despite the fact that I normally disliked those two things in combination, it helped soothe my stressed mind.

Turians in armor watched Asari in leather dancing, while Salarians tried (sometime successfully, but mostly futilely) to beat their hyperactivity and relax. Neon lights and flashing holographic flames played over exotic armors of every make and color, all the various species of the galaxy out to party.

Well, except for the drunken human that Grizz just threw out the front door, but there's always one or two party poopers.

If I wanted to ever see a mixed crowd like that in the future, then I had to get my mind back in order and my priorities in line.

"She'll be here." Vasir reassures me, giving me an curiously intense look. "But first, why don't you tell me about your run in with Cerberus?"

"Okay." I nod, despite my misgivings. "I'll try, but I might not get the details right."

Taking a deep breath, I slowly recount the hectic firefight and the catastrophe that followed. As I talk, my throat tightens at the rush of emotion that accompanies the chaotic memories.

Vasir's face doesn't change when I tell her of how my arrogance almost got me killed, or when I tell her that Miranda Lawson now knows that Aria has a Shadow Broker agent in her pocket.

"I didn't identify you. I didn't say anything about an asari or a Spectre or – or _anything_ else, Vasir." I swear to her, uncomfortably aware that I have _massively_ fucked up.

"Could be worse." Vasir mused. "With luck, she'll think we're talking about Feron; but that's not going to happen, is it?"

"Better to prepare as if she doesn't." I mutter grimly. "Listen, I fucked up, but-"

"Can you _stop_ apologizing?" Vasir demands, her cool voice cutting through my resurging panic. "Keep your head on, and we'll figure out how to minimize the damage."

"...alright." I murmur, gazing at my hands.

My left hand twitches. It's been doing that a lot lately. Residual nerve damage?

God, I hope not.

"What about your arm?" Vasir questions, softening her tone as I look back up at her.

"It's – uh, it's more my armpit, really." I shrug, grimacing as I feel the bonding agent shift a tiny bit (a quick glance reassures me that I'm not going to bleed out). "Cerberus, uh, dropped me off, a good distance away from Afterlife. I rushed back, 'cause my rifle was busted, and I was freaked out, residually, from that encounter with Miranda…"

"And?" Vasir asks, prompting me to go on. "What happened?"

She'd heard all this before, when I had told her earlier, but I guess she wanted me to tell her again.

"I took a wrong turn." I whisper. "Wound up in gang territory. Called themselves the Terroks. They opened fire immediately. Took a Mantis round to the shoulder. Tumbled. Pistol flew out of my hand. Man with the rifle – turian with the rifle, that is – came close, started to gloat."

I close my eyes, remembering the sight of the gaudy purple clothes igniting, the turian shrieking in agony as his plates started to superheat.

"Then I set him on fire."

My breath catches in my throat.

My left hand twitches, involuntarily. I try to hold it still, but it twitches again.

The _hiss_ of the airlock/security door opening stops Vasir from talking, but I don't look up to see who it is.

_Click. Clack. Click. Clack._

A hand settles on my shoulder.

"It's been taken care of, Nick." Aria says gently, before stepping away, her heeled boots loud against the cold metallic floor.

"Taken care of?" I repeat numbly, glancing over at her.

Aria doesn't respond. She's not in her usual mocking/arrogant manner, instead she's fully serious, fully professional; and that only makes me more scared.

"Garka and a few others are off taking care of the Terroks." she says, off-handedly, as she rummages around the small bar in the back of the room.

"What?" I ask, not sure I heard her correctly. "Sorry, but what did you just say?"

"Garka's taking care of the Terroks." Aria repeats as she smoothly mixes cylinders and containers of odd colored... drink.

"What, like the whole gang?" I ask, astonished.

"They broke my Rule." Aria says simply, shrugging as she hands Vasir a blue shotglass. "Drink?"

"I don't drink." I reply mechanically, my mind too busy buzzing with this new information to offer a better excuse than my usual retort. "You mean that Garka's going to-"

"Kill them?" Aria interrupted, knocking back her shot of blue-_whatever-it-was_ in one quick motion. "Yes. If they try to kill my men, then they're trying to kill _me;_ and we can't have that."

"Aria-" I try to say, but my complaints die on my lips.

"You know how it is on Omega, Nick. You _knew_ that the Terroks were going to die." Aria lectures, as she hands Vasir the shotglass that would have been mine. "So why are you being so dumb about it? Accept it and move on; that's the way things happen on Omega."

"I think you need to remember that he's not one of _us_, Aria." Vasir advises, setting down her empty shotglasses on a side-table. "He's still a kid, whether he admits it or not."

"...I knew that intellectually." I state slowly, regaining my confidence as I focus on the _now_, not on the _then_. "There's a difference between knowing something intellectually and knowing it instinctively, emotionally."

"You know, I think I attended a seminar on something similar, once." Vasir chimes in. "Something about how arrogance or lack of comprehension could botch an operation as easily as stupidity. I think the proper terms were different, though."

"They probably are." I concede. "It was easier for me to understand the concept with my own terms, so that's what I use. There's a bit of ironic truth there, if you squint hard enough."

"So it's a lack of comprehension?" Aria guesses, looking intrigued.

I guess that since she's only dealt with professionals (or soon-to-be-dead amateurs), she's never encountered this problem before. Her visitors must have already gotten used to the rapid-fire bloodshed of the Terminus Systems. I mean, even _Liara_, the young archaeologist would have already encountered plenty of death by this point.

Young, naïve people don't exactly come to Omega for a quick vacation, y'know?

"Kind of." I grant, thinking about it. "I haven't had a good real-life example. It's one thing to hear about it, to read about it, but it's a whole 'nother thing to _see_ something like that happen."

It's kinda like skydiving. Everyone's seen the skydiving scenes in movies, and they even see a bit of the same perspective when those scenes show up in games.

But the first time you fall out of a plane, struggling to catch your breath, air compressing your cheeks and roaring in your ears... you _realize _what skydiving really _is_ (other than a ridiculously awesome way to have an adrenaline rush).

Some things can be understood instinctively with enough information, with enough theory.

That's actually how a surprising number of people learn martial arts, going years without ever actually _getting_ into a fight (sparring does not count in this example, because it's missing the necessary _stress_ that a life-or-death situation brings), just practicing and practicing until they have enough theoretical knowledge to replace practical experience.

But just like in most sports, there's a point where you have to forget theory and just _do it_.

Some things can't be learned just through theory; it just so happens that one of those things is the horror of death. Not peaceful death, the kind with dignity and peace, but the death of a criminal, the death of someone who doesn't want to go.

I'm not sure that I'll ever be able to forget those screams.

"I'll grant that." Aria allows magnanimously. "But you need to step up your game, boy. You remembered the wrong name, messed up the order of events, and almost got yourself killed."

"Alright, alright, I'll step up my game." I reply. "Just let me adapt to these fucked-up circumstances, okay? I've got to make sure I don't forget anything important again; so I'll write down – no, no, somebody could steal that, somebody could take a physical list. Omni-tool? Maybe, but first I'll have to remember what's important."

"The fate of the galaxy is on the line, and you can't remember what's important? If this is how you deal with stress, I'd hate to see how you deal with down-time." Vasir quips.

"Oh, I took the time to try to remember all the events that actually affect the game, but how about how a character _speaks? _Those little details evade me, since it's been a while since I actually _played _the games, and those details end up being quite important when you think about it. There's more to a story than just the plot, after all." I inform her dryly.

"Well, Tela," Aria purrs (since when does _Aria T'Loak _fucking _purr_?). "Let's help him remember, then. We didn't have the chance to go over those little details before, given the time constraints, but we've got plenty of time right now."

"Technically, is this non-consensual?" I ask, my mouth running independently of my quickly distracted mind. "I have moral and ethical standards to uphold here, and I've-"

"Pipe down, Nick." Vasir chuckles, lithely striding over to me as she shucks her white fur-collared vest. "This is business, not pleasure."

"I could be convinced to see it as both." Aria said in a simple tone, as if she was not stepping over to me with the seductive grace of a dancer.

"That's all good and well for you, but what about-" I start to ramble, only to be cut off.

* * *

><p>Memories fly by in a blur, weeks of knowledge being absorbed in mere hours as Vasir, Aria, and I carefully inspect my stored memories for any mention of Mass Effect.<p>

Games, books, web discussions, everything is examined, reviewed, and either let alone or played through, painstakingly slow, in real time.

I'd protested that I'd never seen anything like this in the canon explanations of melding, but Vasir had refuted that simply by asking me if I _really_ thought that a hundred-year old asari virgin was the pinnacle of the famed asari meld.

Fair point, I mused.

The game's action scenes are forgotten, while the dialogue is watched slowly, carefully, all three of us commenting on certain words.

Heh, it's almost like a Rifftax of the games.

_Quiet, boy, _Aria says. _Focus._

Yeah, yeah, Aria, I think.

_It's alright, she's just annoyed that there was a possibility about that whole 'Kai Leng' thing, _Vasir comments.

_It would have __**never**__ happened that way,_ Aria denies hotly.

Times like these, I wish I could see your face.

_Shut up, Nick. You know we can't inspect memories and have a mental construct for each of us, _Aria says, though her 'tone' (if you can call it 'tone' when you are _tasting _the _emotions _with your brain instead of your ears) tells me that she's mostly amused.

You have to admit it would be funny to see your face. Your lips kinda twitch when you get irritated.

_Focus,_ Vasir tells me, but the _'taste' _of her emotions telling me that she is struggling not to laugh (well, convey amusement instead of physically laugh, but that's beside the point).

We sift through memories carefully, and every time the memory shifts away from the computer screen, I have to fight off waves of nostalgia, because every time, I see _Home_. I see what I have left behind, what I can never see again.

Sometimes it is my old house director, Mr. P (which is actually what we called him, funnily enough), and sometimes it is my good friends knocking on the door for a favor.

When the memory turns away from the game, Aria and Vasir usually fast-forward until they find the next relevant memory, but they stopped a few times to inspect my life, over my pleading.

Familiar faces haunt me. My old rowing crew, the few juniors I took under my wing, or even just the sight of my old, familiar room.

Aria and Vasir do a good job to move quickly onto the next important memory, but each irrelevant memory that seeps through does a number on my morale, on my motivation, and I think that Aria and Vasir can see it.

I don't know how long we spent going over memories, since I have no physical perceptions to root me to a sense of time.

Eventually, though, we had seen everything.

We had debated, analyzed, and browbeat every piece of information to death, and we were finally done.

Content, now? I ask, directing my thought-question to both of the asari.

_Yes,_ Vasir answers for them both.

_We are quite content, but now we want to know more. What is our plan?_

I can't tell which of the asari said that, as I'm starting to get a headache (which is a bit of a problem when you're in a meld).

Hmm… would that affect the two asari in my head?

Or is it me in their minds? A shared mind-space, composed of all of our heads combined? I genuinely don't know.

And for once, not knowing doesn't bother me. It might be the first time I wasn't bothered by not knowing something.

_He's getting confused,_ one of the asari says.

Which one are you? I question slowly, the headache starting to 'fog' my vision.

_He's been melding too long, _answers the other asari.

_We need to break the meld __**now**__._

* * *

><p>Sluggishly, I prize my eyes open, a familiar pounding headache playing a conga beat on my skull.<p>

The headache only gets worse as my senses start working again. My eyes seem oversensitive, while my nose is overloaded with the sweet smell of Vasir's perfume. The well-worn leather seems to be scratchy and painful beneath my fingertips, instead of the usual smooth and comfortable, but I know that this period of disorientating sensory overload will soon pass.

Luckily, the noise in the safe room is minimal, or my ears would be aching right now.

"Is…" I struggle to say. "Is… that normal?"

"I don't know, kid." Vasir admits slowly, from her position lying on Aria's Couch. "I've never –_ooh_ – been under that long."

Vasir stretches, almost cat-like, along the length of the Couch. She groans, obviously feeling a headache herself.

"How long?" I mutter, testing each limb in turn as I rub and massage my muscles. "How long were we melding?"

"Looks like six hours," Aria groans, rubbing her temples along the faint lines of her tattoos. "I didn't think it would take that long."

"Six _fucking_ hours?" I reply incredulously. "We've been looking over my memories for _six hours?_ I was planning on talking about our plans while we had a little privacy, you know? The meld is the ultimate privacy; since we aren't actually speaking, there's no chance of being overheard, right?"

"Don't doubt my safe room." Aria grumbles, and I raise my eyebrows at the small glimpse beneath Aria's normally impenetrable façade. "A lot of money went into creating this room, I'd appreciate it if you didn't belittle it."

"Okay, darling." I deadpan. "But we still need to discuss plans. Any chance we can go back into the meld to get that sorted out?"

"Not unless… _ugh_… you want to fry your brain." Vasir groaned, sluggishly sitting upright. "If you were asari, then maybe. Our physiology can cope with the strain – but I'm not sure that yours can. If you'd like to test that, then we can go again."

"No, no – no no no," I quickly refuse. "I'm good with staying alive, personally."

"Then we're doing it here and now." Aria says, sighing. "So, what do you want to start with?"

"The Geth. Better guns might be useful, but we need to level the playing field, and for that we need the Geth." I say, as Vasir shakily stands up and treads over to the bar full of the exotic drinks, carefully cropped from Afterlife's finest selection.

"I managed to get a hold of three STG message probes," Vasir informs us, her experienced hands mixing a few quick drink. "They're designed to hold up large amounts of information, and should work for our purposes. We can preset them to transmit that information as soon as they enter the Tikkun system, to minimize the chances of the Geth shooting them down without hearing the message."

As Vasir moves back to her seat next to Aria, she pauses to hold out the drink in her hand, proffering it to me. I shake my head, but Vasir doesn't move.

"Drink it. It'll help with the post-melding aches and pains."

I don't like it, but I nod. Tipping my head back, I slam the drink back as quick as I can, thinking it is some kind of medicine.

It's not.

"_Fuck_, Vasir!" I splutter as my throat catches fire. "I thought I told you that I don't drink!"

"I don't care." Vasir said, shrugging as she knocks back her drink. "It'll loosen you up, help you relax a little. With how tense you've been lately, I wouldn't be surprised if you had a nervous breakdown."

"That's not funny!" I grunt, the alcohol's initial rough burning slowly fading away. "That's not funny, Vasir!"

"So _you_ say," Aria says, her lips twitching slightly upward, while Vasir chuckles and plops herself down on the armrest of my recliner.

The chuckling and gentle ribbing (literally, as Vasir takes advantage of my seated position beside/beneath her) goes on for a few more minutes, Aria and Vasir doing a pretty decent job of making me feel at ease considering that I'd just downed something that tasted about as nice as moonshine.

"Alright, alright," Aria chuckles, allowing herself a rare smile. "That's enough joking around, let's get back to business. Nick, what info did you put in the first probe?"

"Uh, specific terms, really. The kind of stuff that only the Geth know, like what they call themselves, what they call the Geth Rebellions – the Morning War, they call it – along with similar stuff, like what the Reaper Sovereign introduced himself as to the Geth, as well as the Geth Consensus's ultimate plan, which is to create a Dyson Sphere to house the assorted Geth programs." I explain, as Vasir distractingly runs a hand gently through my hair.

"Stop that, please," I tell Vasir, briefly looking up and locking eyes with her. "It's distracting."

Vasir pouts, using her youthful asari features to try to guilt me into letting her continue.

"That's won't work on me," I continue without pause, smirking a little. "I grew up in a family with several Basset Hounds, so I am _quite _familiar with the puppy-dog-eyes routine. You'll find no respite in adorability and cuteness, not from me, anyway."

"Fine, fine." Tela Vasir says, leaning on my side as she sits on my recliner's armrest. "I'll stop the pouting."

"Good; it's hard to concentrate on plans to conquer the universe when you're doing that."

"Conquer the universe? Ambitious, are we?" Aria asks, her face holding slight grin at my words. "How did we go from 'defending the galaxy' to conquering it? Maybe you've a bit too much to drink, or maybe you're just not used to the kick of good asari drink."

"Aria, you know full well there's no way that the drink is already starting to affect me." I reply lightheartedly. "Besides, I've had some _real_ drinks before. I might not _like_ to drink, but that doesn't mean I haven't had a few drinks before."

"Oh, the kid finally shows some spine." Vasir teases playfully, pushing my shoulder. "Well, he didn't really have much in that, did he Aria?"

"No, I don't think so." Aria agrees casually, as she carefully stands up. "And while I'd love to continue this conversation, I think we're going to need some food before we discuss Nick's plan to conquer the galaxy."

"I'll agree to that," I nod, wincing a tad as my stomach starts aching. "But… only one of us should go out. Vasir can't be seen in Afterlife, and if both of us show up at the same time, people are going to start talking."

"Good thinking." Aria says. "We'll discuss what to do with Santiago while you're away. Massani is a skilled bounty hunter, and I want to keep him on my payroll as long as I can."

"Alright," I concur, nodding once as I get back on my wobbly feet. "I'll just be back in a minute, then."

* * *

><p>Twenty minutes later, I strode back in through the security doors, carefully balancing a stack of covered trays. Glancing around, I automatically rule out the low coffee table and the chairs, because I don't want to risk spilling food on those. Not only would it be disgusting, but we'd also have to have them cleaned, and that would probably be a security risk.<p>

"Over here, on the table." Vasir says, beckoning me over to a good-sized wooden (which is a fairly luxurious item on Omega) table in the corner of the dim small security room.

"That table wasn't there earlier." I note as I carefully set down the heavy trays onto the warm wood. "And I doubt it was hiding around the corner, folded up. Where'd you guys get it?"

"There's a few storage closets in the back," Aria informs me, gesturing to the other side of the room. "I keep a few useful items back there, and this old table's one of them. Why, would you rather eat on the chairs?"

"No, no, just curious is all. Thought it was a security risk." I admit while distributing the trays and opening them up, releasing the scent of warm food. "Plus, I haven't seen a wooden table since… well, Home."

I run my hand across the table, feeling the texture of the wood beneath my fingers as I trace the grain.

_You can take the boy out of the logging town…_

It was a small and plain table, capable of seating six, eight if you squeezed in. No polish or fancy gilt decorated it. It was there to be used, it's not there to be looked at.

It was, in short, the perfect table for me.

"He's getting sad again, Aria; do you think a meld would cheer him up?" Vasir optimistically asked.

"No, Tela, you know that'd just fry his brain." Aria dismisses the suggestion as she takes a seat at the head of the small wooden table. "Sit down and eat, Nick. It'll help."

"Dad always said that we got emotional when we were hungry." I muse softly as I take a swig of my bottled protein shake (thankfully, protein shakes in the future tasted positively _divine_ when compared to some of the stuff I'd had back Home) and grab a plate.

"Oh look," I continue, deadpan. "I'm a moody bastard. I guess he was right."

I chuckle, but there's no humor in it.

Maybe that's the booze starting to kick in? Residual effects from the six-hour Marathon Meld?

Fuck if I know, at this point. If I wasn't worried about my control, I'd have another shot of that asari drink, if only to dull the loneliness. Of course, that wouldn't help.

Sighing, I reach for a slice of the homemade pizza that I'd pilfered from the kitchen, cursing one more time that Afterlife's human cuisine was comprised solely of the most 'popular' human dishes. Pizza, of course, was one of them.

At least, I reflect, it's proper thin Sicilian pizza. Call me a purist, but I just prefer it that way.

Without another time-wasting thought, I unhurriedly take a bite of the warm pizza.

Huh?

What?

I pause, and look at my slice in confusion.

My lips purse as I inspect the seemingly plain cheese pizza, which at first glance contains no extra ingredients.

"Steak pizza." I mutter under my breath, while Aria and Vasir dig into the other dishes. "_Huh_. Well, score one for the future."

The food is warm and good, and I take a few minutes to sample some of the asari cuisine that I'd brought for the ladies.

I'd always liked trying different cuisines, but I cautiously avoided sampling the squid-looking bits. As a rule, I don't eat any seafood that isn't salmon or clam chowder. Instead, I pluck an oddly colored biscuit away from it's stack.

Biting into it reveals a curious wealth of tastes, starting sweet and ending sour. I wince again as the sour taste slowly fades.

Personally, I'm good without one of those taste-changing treats. I'll stick to meat, bread, and nutrient shakes.

We eat in comfortable semi-silence, only talking when Aria or Vasir tried to get me to eat various bits of asari food, all of which I politely refused after tasting that biscuit.

The room may be small (not _quite_ cramped, but close), but the friendly behavior of the two asari beside me makes it seem warm and welcoming. The décor is inviting, a mixture of expensive and plain, and the room itself seems inviting.

That seems to reflect Afterlife's employee's section quite well. The grey metallic walls might be cold and dull, but the friendships that are slowly starting to build up are making it quite hospitable to me.

I pull duty shifts with Anto, and we talk quite amicably while working. Zaeed works me into the ground in the gym, but there is comradeship there. Hell, even Len, the turian bartender I work with, is starting to get a little friendlier.

I eat with them, work with them, and sleep under the same roof as them. It shouldn't be any surprise that I'm becoming friends with them… but…

_Perhaps_, I think as I polish off my sixth piece, _I might find another home here._

It wouldn't be the first time. Boarding school for four years, then off to college (which barely counts because I ended up here after the first year)… I hadn't had a home; I'd had a dorm.

_Perhaps… I might like it here._

Heh.

Yeah, I might like it here on Omega, home of criminals and scum, land of opportunity and chaos.

I chuckle at the absurdity of that thought, and Vasir raises an eyebrow in askance as I do.

"It's nothing," I dismiss.

"Now that we've eaten, let's get back to your plan, Nick. Tell us, what other grand plans do you have for our _little_ galaxy?" Aria questions, a tinge of mockery in her voice.

"We're gonna need an army if we're gonna fight the Reapers. Well, a navy, 'cause we've already got a few armies."

"The Reapers smashed through our fleets in a few months the first time." Vasir says, taking another sip of her drink.

"Even with Thanix Cannons, we lost three dreadnoughts for each of theirs," she continues, "Obviously we need more ships, but aren't they going to be thrown away anyway? Even if we could get rid of the Treaty of Farixen _and_ get every race to start stepping up their dreadnought creation, how useful are those ships going to be?"

"You people love your dreadnoughts…" I murmur, thinking hard.

Hmm... Dreadnoughts are basically battleship analogs, right?

"What about carriers?" I suggest thoughtfully. "Humanity went through a similar problem before World War Two, with battleships. Aircraft carriers took charge, replacing battleships easily. Developments in planes made aircraft the dominant force, and made battleships obsolete. What if we could apply that here? How viable are fighter-bombers for naval operations?"

"Neither fighters nor bombers have been capable of turning the tide of a battle for thousands of years." Vasir says, doubtful. "There just isn't enough of a technological edge for a fighter to pierce a larger ship's kinetic barriers."

"What if we arm the fighters with Thanix tech?" I speculate, mind racing. "We already know that the Reapers can take out dreadnoughts nigh-instantly with their massive tech advantage, so we can't match them blow-for-blow. Why not take the opposite route? Massive fighter-bomber swarms that dodge hits instead of taking them."

"Lack of pilots, lack of skill, lack of coordination." Aria ticks off, looking unconvinced. "The more ships we put out, the more we have to coordinate them. That'll mean dedicated coordinators, the best electronic warfare specialists in the galaxy, and large numbers of pilots to begin with. There are less complications with a dreadnought, at least to the bureaucratic fools that run the militaries. Besides, can a fighter even mount a Thanix Cannon?"

"So we built the fighters a little bigger." I shrug, pressing my point on. "The Geth can do that easily enough. We don't need any life support or cockpit for a Geth, and their reactions are going to be a lot faster than a pilot's, so that frees up a lot of space for weapons or engines. The only real problem is the lack of skill."

"We could get around that." Vasir agrees, putting a finger to her lips as she thinks. "The problem with machines is that they fly predictable routs, with predictable flight paths. When we fought the Geth – the Heretic Geth that Saren had, anyway, the fighter kill ratios were always in our favor. But V.I.'s are always improving. We just need to improve the Geth."

"Good idea." I agree warmly, as Vasir nears _my_ idea. "But the Geth are still just V.I. linked together. Would a full A.I. do better? A true A.I. can learn, can adapt, and Legion turned into a full A.I. simply by interacting with Shepard for a few months, by being isolated from the Consensus, and by thinking of itself as a single unit, rather than a collection of programs. Is _that_ a line of thought we want to pursue?"

"I don't know." Vasir sighs. "But if we're going to try to figure this puzzle out, then we'll need experts: true tacticians, not two asari and a kid. We'll need engineers, and scientists, and all manner of experts. At the moment, we have none of those."

"Well, we need to get on that. Since we can't do that until the Shadow Broker is gone, that's our first goal." I murmur, glancing briefly at my twitching left hand.

It's been twitching a lot lately. I used to think my hands twitched because of my psychological problems after killing, but Aria and Vasir have been helping me overcome those.

_It's nerve damage, then_.

I remember hearing a doctor tell me that nerve damage has six months to fix itself, once the doctors finish up. After six months, it won't grow/heal any more. That might mean that I could never shoot again.

_It can wait, _I decide. I need to focus, now more than ever, and the condition of my arm is not as important as the fate of the galaxy.

* * *

><p>"So you can fix it, right?" I ask Holly, glancing at the now-exposed skin on my shoulder, as if trying to <em>see<em> the nerve damage.

My hands twitch, and I tightened my lips in annoyance.

"Roughly speaking, yes." Holly answers, directing me to sit down on top of the operating table as she disposes of the used medi-gel patch.

"The specifics of the operation are quantum – not literally, of course – but it's possible. I'll need to have Marsh procure a couple things for the operation but it should be a fairly easy procedure," she explains.

"That's the best news I've heard all day, doc." I reply earnestly, with a happy grin. "So, when can we get this out of the way?"

"I'll need to talk to Marsh to be sure, but at least a month." Holly informs me solemnly with her bizarre British accent, laying a gentle hand on my good shoulder.

"A _month_?" I repeat incredulously. "I understand that it takes some time to get your instruments, but – but this is an advanced society, surely we an get these things faster?"

Holly's weary face looks unamused by my question.

"Nick, to regrow and re-connect a nerve isn't a small operation." Holly explains. "It isn't exactly something that can be with a scalpel and some thread, you know?"

I nod slowly, looking once more at where Holly had peeled away the medi-gel patch, revealing a mess of scar tissue.

"What does this mean for me in the short term, doc?"

Holly sighs.

"It _means_ no more training. You have no doubt noticed the infrequent tremors by now; I can't let you put any weight on that arm. If you were to have another tremor whilst you were training, then God knows what could happen; a weight crushes your windpipe, Mr. Massani breaks your nose, et cetera," she explains seriously, locking eyes with me.

"Under no circumstance can you participate in any physical activity that uses that arm. No training, no shooting, no duty."

"No shooting?" I repeat, horrified and protesting. "But if I shoot with a rest, I don't _need_ my other arm!"

"Fine," Holly allows, with the slightest tinge of a smile at my childish antics. "But don't complain to me if your accuracy is shite."

"Thank you, Holly!" I say quickly, enveloping her surprised form in a hug.

"I thought that I might not be able to use this arm any more... You've helped me massively; if you ever need _anything_, please, just say the word."

"Yes, yes." Holly chuckles, amused as I pull back from the hug. "Don't fuck up your arm any more that it already is, and we'll get along just fine."

Grateful, I thank her one more time and politely duck out of the infirmary.

Slowly, taking my time, I amble down the dull grey corridors of Afterlife's secure sections (man, we _need_ to come up with a better name for the base), thinking about the situation.

Zaeed was going to be pissed.

The only reason he wasn't getting paid a ridiculous amount of money for his usual contracts was because he was supposed to train me on Aria's orders. Now that I can't train, he's going to want to get back to his contracts.

I'll go explain to Aria, then. Hopefully, Vasir's intel on Vido Santiago's location will be a good enough bonus that Zaeed'll come back when I've fully recovered.

I may bag on the old man's borderline abusive training habits, but they've helped me come a long way from the panicking boy that I was.

Granted, I'm still a panicky kid, but at least now I have the discipline to pull the trigger on another being, however sick it makes me.

Leaving the infirmary behind, my old worn runners silence my steps as I walk slowly through the dull grey corridors of Afterlife, glancing at the occasional cable or interface to break up the monotony.

"Hey, Nick!"

Glancing over my shoulder, I smile as I see Anto jogging up to me.

"Hey, Anto." I greet. "What's up, man?"

"Not much. I'd heard you got out of surgery, but when I went to see you, you'd vanished." Anto replies, as we keep walking.

"Yeah, Aria had a few questions for me." I shrug off.

"Questions that took _six hours_?" Anto asks perceptively, nudging my good shoulder as he barks out a quick laugh. "C'mon, Nick. We're not blind around here."

My blood runs cold for a minute, and I realize what I've done.

"Tell me," I start carefully, watching Anto's reactions. "What do they say about Aria, now that this has come up?"

"They say she's finally taken another to her bed. It's been a while since Aria publicly had someone in that position." Anto informs me bluntly.

Our conversation halts briefly as we squeeze past a couple of armored turians coming off duty as bouncers, and we nod in respect to our coworkers.

Oddly enough, the turians give _me_ a nod of respect alongside Anto, something that most of them usually didn't do, given my status as a young, unproven, non-military human.

Neither of us speaks until the noise of the turian's boots _clanking_ fades away.

"Let me know, eh? If there's any trouble with kind of stuff." I murmur to Anto, looking eyes briefly to let him know how serious I am.

Of course, then I realize that I don't know with set of eyes to look at. Batarian problems, eh?

"Aria can't handle this on her own?" Anto questions shrewdly, lowering his voice as the topic turns more serious.

"Of course she can," I deny. "She's _Aria_. But if… associating with _me_ causes any problems, then…"

I trail off, not knowing how to finish that statement.

Anto nods, and my respect for him goes up a notch.

"I just… well, this isn't to say anything about you personally, but this _is_ Omega; I don't want there be any trouble amongst the guard, ok?" I mutter to him, the words tasting like ash in my mouth.

Anto's features tighten, completely justified given that I just doubted the loyalty of everyone we work with.

"We're working for the ruler of Omega. Everyone here knows just how ruthless she can get. If any of Aria's enemies try to get to her through you, we'll kill them." Anto says brusquely.

"Dump the bodies in river, things like that?" I muse idly.

"More like out the airlock, but yeah." Anto shrugs. "Nobody told me that we had to play fair."

"Yeah… same here." I respond slowly, unwilling to let my mind wander down that dark and depressing path again.

"You're off-duty, right?" I ask Anto, deliberately turning the corner to the club rather than heading towards my room. "Let's get a drink, relax a little."

"Oh, you're finally gonna have a drink?" Anto smirks. "Try _not_ to puke all over me, alright? It's bad for Afterlife if one of the bouncers can't hold his drink down."

"You know, I _have_ has a few drinks before." I return, as we near the door to the club. "I can hold my drink down, and besides, I won't be drinking anything heavy. Aria'd have my guts if I embarrassed her; I don't need any more incentive than that."

Anto chuckles warmly, his deep batarian voice rumbling through the empty corridor.

* * *

><p>"What's your report, Kenn?" Aria questions, swirling the glass of Noverian Rum in her off hand while she reclines on the Couch.<p>

The music pulses loudly in Afterlife, but the intensity dims in Aria's loft, whether due to acoustics or some kind of generator I don't know.

The flashing neon lights up the skin of exotic dancers as they twirl around on stage, making the crowd roar.

It's a good night for the club, drinks are pouring liberally, and there's only been a few problems (or so Garka told me), so everyone's happy.

"I've managed to incorporate wedge-firing mechanisms in almost every shotgun in our armory, Captain." Kenn tells her, his helmet's light flashing brightly, before pausing. "S-sorry, old habits are… hard to break."

"Just Aria, Kenn." Aria permits him, smirking slightly at his uneasiness.

"Relax, buddy, she's not gonna bite you, unless you ask real nice." I chuckle from my position on Aria's left, waving at Kenn with an easy reassurance. "So, what's up with the rifles we just got?"

"I know the basic idea on what to do with the Mattocks, but a basic idea isn't going to get me far." Kenn says, shaking his helmet slightly. "I can rig up a few up with heat-sinks, but the firing rate is going to have be limited; I know the idea is for semi-automatic, but firing too fast into a jury-rigged system risks detonating the rifle, and that's not good."

I nod, having followed that stream of babble easily enough.

Tentatively, I take a sip of the Noverian Rum that Aria'd told me to drink, saying that I was 'too tense' and that I needed to 'mellow out a little.'

I haven't had the chance to experiment with alcohol as much as some of my former schoolmates have, so this is the first time I've had rum, but so far, it seems pretty good.

Unconsciously, I was expecting a gargle-blaster, perhaps unfairly, but this rum is a smooth, semi-sweet concoction that's actually damn good.

Given how tightly Aria's holding her own drink, though, I think she might be talking to herself a little.

I don't know how well she's taking all the new info that I've dumped on her, but hopefully she doesn't shatter the glass in her hand.

"Is this a resource problem, or an expertise problem?" Aria probes, her eyes narrowing slightly as Kenn stands nervously at attention.

"A bit of both, I'm afraid." Kenn admits. "Marsh got us a dozen Mattocks, and I've already taken apart two without any significant improvements in the prototypes. As well… I-I'm not as good with rifles as I am with shotguns."

"Hmm…" Aria murmurs, taking a swallow of her rum as she thinks.

Kenn tries to hide his hands behind us back, but from where I'm sitting I can see that they're shaking.

_Dammit, he's no good to us if goes through a nervous breakdown_, I recognize.

"Kenn, it's alright." I assure him. "We're really happy with the work you've done on our shotguns. Aria understands how hard you're working, so don't worry about that. If anything, I'd say you should get a bonus for working so hard. It couldn't've been easy to modify all those guns by hand."

Kenn nods back, and the shaking peters out as he slowly relaxes.

Aria nods, having listened to my encouragement.

"I _am_ very happy with your work, Kenn." Aria tells him, her tone smooth. "But as you said, rifles aren't a specialty of yours. I supposed we'll have to bring in some other experts to help you figure it out. That'll be your job, Nick."

A little surprised by the order, I nonetheless nod in confirmation.

"Alright, but, there's the matter of me returning to the Flotilla, and-" Kenn starts to chatter quickly, his confidence coming apart.

"Kenn, I'm not firing you." Aria calls out, a slight undercurrent of amusement in her tone. "You're going to work with these experts, and I see about contacting the Quarian Fleet for you."

"You keep this work up, Kenn, and you'll be helping the Fleet gain a big advantage over the Geth, _and _earn a tidy paycheck in the process." I say amicably to Kenn. "And you don't need to worry about your work harming the Fleet; so long as the Quarian Fleet leaves us be, we'll leave them be. I don't see the Admirals deciding to attack Omega any time soon, so we're good, eh?"

Kenn seems to nod (I'd say smile, but I can't tell under that helmet) at that, at least, and bows awkwardly to Aria.

"Oh, no need to be formal." Aria dismisses, hiding her smile with another sip of her drink. "That's all Kenn; Nick will stop by later to follow up."

Kenn nods, then hastily bids an nervous retreat.

Aria gazes at his retreating form for a moment, then turns her head to me.

"Remind me to get that boy a dance, Nick." Aria instructs idly. "It'll help him unwind a little."

"Aria, is your approach to everything just to – to get them a dancer?" I inquire jokingly, the good buzz from the rum loosening my tongue.

"Why not?" Aria asks rhetorically, glancing at the dancer twirling around on the circular stage. "Everyone needs to relax now and then; why shouldn't I earn a little money off that?"

I laugh once more and take a slow sip of my drink, noting that I should probably get some solid food in me if I'm going to be sitting up here for the rest of the night.

The crowd cheers, and on a whim I stand, surveying the bizarre and eccentric floor of Afterlife.

Gazing out over the crowd, I watch humans toast turians, batarians reminisce with krogan, and more.

Hell, what's wrong with enjoying the sights for a few minutes?

It's a beautiful day to be alive, I've got a challenge to keep me busy, and things are only going to get more interesting.

Silently, I hold up my glass, toasting the club and taking another sip. Behind me, Aria chuckles, and I let out a little smirk.

* * *

><p>x<p>

x

x

Omake time!

**Ghost Nappa gives Advice **or **Shut Up and Take It** (Jomasten)

_Nick._

_Nick._

_Niiiiick._

_This is a voice in your head speaking. More than likely a manifestation of your fractured psyche trying to compensate for all the shitty things happening to you, but not something that'll turn your brain into a BROB._

_Fuck you and get bent, lucky bastard. Just shut up and take the mind tentacles like a true man. _

_That is all._

x

x

x

**A Date with Asari **or **How to not Fuck up a Date with Aria T'Loak or Tela Vasir**(Xeno Major)

**Original Statement by Vaermina: **"Just what would people like Aria and Vasir consider a good Date?"

**My Response is as Follows:  
><strong>

Eh...

For Aria, instead of showing up with flowers, you show up with blackmail on her or on a high-ranking government member.

You take her to a good restaurant, where everyone (patron, staff, and paparazzi) are in your pocket.

Then you lace her food with a harmless flavoring that could easily be poison.

You finish it off by melding with her and showing that you can manipulate the meld efficiently (which is apparently the sign of a good mate).

As well, you need to show that you can keep your secrets from her, specifically in the meld (all while revealing that you could have killed her if you had wanted).

Aria respects strength, as well as the knowledge that she is just as powerful as you. She's very alpha in that way, so you have to be a mix of alpha/beta. Show that you are alpha enough to play the Great Game, while being beta enough to submit to her ultimate authority.

In that regard, I fail on the second, third, and fifth counts.

For Vasir, you show up apologizing that you have to cancel the nice dinner, because you found some critical information about a threat to the galaxy (note: it has to actually be a threat, not a made-up situation for the occasion).

Then you say that you don't need her help, but she's welcome to tag along if she wants.

Impress her with your critical thinking skills by either ferreting out where the threatening group is located, or by having a pre-set information network which gathers the necessary info for you.

Show that you can handle yourself with some action (either blackmailing or fighting).

Finish it off with a firm reminder that you are sorry about the date, but galactic safety comes first.

Then round it off with an admission that it's not too late to catch a bite to eat and a quick meld.

Vasir is, first and foremost, a Spectre, and she has one goal, which is the safety of the galaxy.

Showing her that you already plan on handling it yourself shows that you have a similar mindset to her, but you still have to be different enough in attitude/temperament.

The information shows you are independent enough to not need Vasir to pull all the weight.

Fighting well means Vasir doesn't need to protect you (though you never know, she might get off on that kind of stuff).

The reminder tells her more about your mindset, your philosophy (since the previous parts of the date should have gotten her interested enough to inquire).

And the last bit about food and melding informs her that you are casual about both galaxy-threatening situations, and about casual sex (or the equivilant).


End file.
